after a day of chopping wood

or pitching manure

or stacking stones

we stand outside

 

looking at our kitchen’s round window

as if it were the yolk light

of sun or mind

 

the skin of our earthen house

holds the window

 

perhaps the window is more mouth than eye

pulling us inside

where we will fire up the wood stove

 

and listen to the tea kettle quake

below the peeled poles holding the loft

where we sleep