Furrows

Even when tears are there
in the pit of your stomach,
they are sometimes deeply and painfully stuck
while your sad face goes on creasing and cringing up.
It’s like furrowed ground
turned over and under in late summer,
as we wait for noisy Gulls to dip and drag the worms
in their wild, wet beaks; shrieking in flight.
And the days draw in, pulling down the dark
as if into the blood lines of your heavy heart.
Horse Chestnuts roll out of broken shells, gleaming brown
and you remember Spring, like dawn, always comes again,
however rough the night has been.