"If I didn't tell her,
I could leave today..."
Whiteness of fog covers our August fields,
cold rain again. A gray car leaves the road.
Deer begin to blossom on edges,
or perch on yellow lines.
Blackbirds convene. A few green leaves
predict the elms in weeks.
Somewhere I've seen this before.
Just another place on the continent.
But the land has ending.
Fire is the awkward message there.
The smoke white sky, ash gray on our road,
or yellow clothes on moonscapes,
my shovel turning embers.
There was a time to leave.
But there is no time to return.
I do not build bronze monuments.
Warmth is not absence of cold,
desert sand is snow. Our wings
cannot converge on what has never been.
After long waiting, elms remake themselves.
And she is here, not on some distant shore.