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.