It is good to be free. Nests of dismantled barbed wire
rust in the weeds next to the barn’s burn pile. She wanted
the stars to stay still, but they wouldn’t; their herds
kept migrating West, and now the house is turned loose too,
into the holy wind. Someone else will love it.
The Ryder truck is packed with the armoire and chairs
that wouldn’t sell. After so much work, it is only at night
that things touch her too deeply. Like the way the golds
of the field turn to silver in the moonlight, like they’ve lost
their will to swell.
— Analisa Lee