There is an inn, where the old year goes,
On the far hill, where the crabgrass grows, and the honeysuckle,
Where the stones incline together, a few aurochs painted on their side,
Beneath the thatch of rusted armies and dried out empires.

They welcome him in, with a fireside grin,
And say, speak, old man,
Tell us of the summer you carry in your beard,
And the time the days kissed under the bleachers.
Then they light his pipe with the light of the moon,
And the spark of a young boy’s dreams.

Out in the world, the naked and the new take their customary precedence.
Here at the inn, the old wear tales,
And everything raw is addressed in candlelight,
Every emptiness between the stones kindly remembered.