Friday, May 08, 2020
The leaves of the cottonwoods
will turn their undersides to
light before a storm. They want
nothing but what is. The stones
between the fence and the back
of the machine shed have stayed
solid for a hundred years
and still enclose the summer
sun in their secret star hearts.
They don't know what else to do.
You may leave a place, we say,
you may leave these trees, this heap
of rock, this wind, but the place
does not leave you. It is there
in your own secret heart, where
you speak with, and for, and of
those you have loved, those you have
loved and lost and not forgot.