Sunday, March 13, 2016


It’s midday: spiderweb snares have long been
broken by careless dogs or startled bikers. The
dew’s all gone, having vanished in an inhalation
of clouds. Young bathers pick their way across
gravel and slickrock, tender-footing it, laughing
when one of their own missteps and yelps. It’s
a long time since I’ve been here, in this palace
of memory. The mirror in the creek is cloudy,
hedging its bets, knowing I’ll ask after you. It’s
cagey today, singing only about light and oak
leaves, about small hatchlings no bigger than
my pinky nail. It shares no stories for me about
things we knew when you were alive. And yet:
it knows new stories, it says, tumbling in deep
aquifers, and those stories bear my name too.

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