My yard—so fully there, so walked over. This willow, this view, every day in every light. Weeping, tarped, still bare, nothing to disappoint.
Wednesday, March 1, 2017
A long time gone: the past settling, vaguer. Suites of seasons, rivers, poems, skies, quiet rooms. Upheavals, of earth and lives. A lost earring. Wanting to have had can be kept like a pressed leaf, colors intact at the end of winter, but no longer as needed.