west winds rustle the leaves and grasses
— we, nestled, embrace by the oak tree
behind your father’s cottage, in autumn
chill & solemn mist, a sad hush about us
: before dawn, I’ll be leaving Killiechronan
for Oban & Tobermory to cross the ocean
to America… so wipe your eyes, hold me
close — sure, I’ll be writing every chance
I get & I’ll send for you from Boston or
Carolina as soon as there’s work… we’ll
dance across the threshold of our new
house made of good wood and brick
a fire in the hearth to keep the babies
warm, meatty stew & milk… Draw down
for now your veil and shawl, for all those
prayers will be answered by springtime
set aside those fears for our future
of dreams, a new world, a new life;
your poor mother’s prayers answered
to the West & freedom by our own hand
[& God’s]