The path to the creek swings back and forth like
what I think is true throughout the day. The road
shoots up the hill. You said
there were no mountains here, just
hills. What’d you do that made me
change my mind?
After all those years of being careful,
we hiked to the creek, the mind of its pools
swirling. Without you was before you.
I think it matters now. Downstream
the water darkened like sleep.
When we got home and hung up our socks,
they twisted in the air, reminding me
of pheasants, bagged and drying.
Outside, a slab of snow, ugly after rain,
lay down to die before a gray row of trees.
Forgive me. I walk across a field quite similar now.
Everything giving. My shoes sinking into the ground.
My hope of getting anywhere
on time. The dirt here has apprehended all the small rocks.
Blue jays insist there is no bad news.
Flat dark clouds remind me of closed eyes. As if
you came and found me, just to close your eyes.