The Farm on the Great Plain

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.