A telephone line goes cold;



birds tread it wherever it goes.



A farm back of a great plain



tugs an end of the line.







I call that farm every year,



ringing it, listening, still;



no one is home at the farm,



the line gives only a hum.







Some year I will ring the line



on a night at last the right one,



and with an eye tapered for braille



from the phone on the wall







I will see the tenant who waits—



the last one left at the place;



through the dark my braille eye



will lovingly touch his face.







“Hello, is Mother at home?”



No one is home today.



“But Father—he should be there.”



No one—no one is here.







“But you—are you the one . . . ?”



Then the line will be gone



because both ends will be home:



no space, no birds, no farm.







My self will be the plain,



wise as winter is gray,



pure as cold posts go



pacing toward what I know.





