It’s your child face I see,

blonde and pale, that ghostly light

slipping in with the moon.

And the chants of childhood,

 “Run sheep run” and

 “No bears out tonight.”

The farm, changed yet familiar,

Like negatives of photographs.

Long limbs of pale shadow

reach toward us from the trees,

across the milky distance between barn

and pasture, shouts still float,

 “What time is it, moon?”

And from some deep well

our child voices want to answer.

Photo by Madison Thurber; do not copy