It is as if I can almost still remember.
As if I once perhaps belonged here.
The mountains a deep heavy green, and
The rocky steep drop to the waters below.
The peaked roofs, the white-plastered
Brick. A clothesline in a neighbor’s yard
Made of sticks. The stone path skimming
The ridge. A ladder asleep against a house.
What is the soul allowed to keep? Every
Birth, every small gift, every ache? I know
I have knelt just here, torn apart by loss. Lazed
On this grass, counting joys like trees: cypress,
Blue fir, dogwood, cherry. Ageless, constant,
Growing down into earth and up into history.
No comments:
Post a Comment