TIMSHEL

On some mornings it was like you had been unfrozen
by heavy boughs, when you would hold onto
the small ores in the natives’ still river. In every battle
we have to turn our backs to the trees, and all we remembered
lay quietly in our hands. Watching the night
is another end to their new beginning, soon everything
will be thinking of trees. And when my hand in summer
sees these cold and damp white warnings, I wonder if
when I smile I’ll be walking with you.

(August 26, 2011)