Night, Ontario,
the boy lay on his back
in the field of freshly cut hay.
Light
lifted his body.
Swung it sideways.
Pulled it nearly to the farthest stars.
Then rolled a wheel
so wide, so thick
he felt his chest
could break.
Years passed.
Six decades, seven,
what luck allowed, a body
whole but patched.
Tonight
by this hearth fire
he begins to whittle
an object:
a small windmill
the interstellar winds
might turn.