Under Our Feet

The furnace groans under our feet
and candle flames dance on a draft
as lights fastened to garland strung around the porch
swing in the wind, moving slow.

We're moving slow,
finding a foothold where once
one was,
shifting under our feet,
like sand at the beach,
shifting under our feet,
moving slow.

Dawn's first light streaks above the barn down the road,
the shed and the granary take shape down the road,
close but further than once they stood.
The ghost of a swing sways from a tree
no longer there.
The faithful dawn cares not for a changing landscape
nor human inability to let go.