The Epilogue Entries – No.7

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SHE

∴

 

i still look for her sometimes,
in the way you look for words
to come out of howling winds,
straining for her voice carried thereupon.

 

i will stare out of clean windows
at mounds of fresh dirt
that fade from black to brown
in fall’s herald flurries,
and know that her bones
are buried in that dirt, too.

 

her fingers,
the birch trees,
scraggled and bare,
stretch up from the earth,
reaching always,
in arthritic branch,
toward heaven.

 

her hair is the tall, green grass,
then gold,
then yellow,
then flat upon the earth,
uncombed and wind-whipped,
the way a wild woman wears it.

her fragrance is in the pine
that never fades.

 

her tears are the droplets that ride on rapids hidden,
where the iced over edges of the creek,
collect snow or make mirrors,

but, do not be fooled.

there is a current under there,
made of all the tears she ever shed
and sheds still,
like glass wishes.

 

i still look for her,
in the way one looks for her,
hopeless and happy
and aware.

 

∴

 

 

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