The tiny, spotless house:
a solid though worn white shell.
Arms of the raccoon eyed farmer:
thick stems ending in brown spore-pocked fingers.
The enduring matriarch:
moon phases calculated out for three thousand years.
The face of their universal toddlers:
roused walnuts not yet shattered.
The plow courses the soil:
tidal rip in gray, stony sea.
Harvest is drawn from the work:
embraces that cut and sting their skins.
This living happens
one dawn to dark run at a time.
How it has always happened:
one dawn to dark run at a time.
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Dark Matter 
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