Was not the first
I’d come again…
reeking of woodsmoke
folded near inside my shirt…
names that should be new;
the taste of somewhere else
triggered in the calling.

Silence (clinging) feels the same
a sweet familiar love –
remembered all the reasons
why I left…
to come again
pulling at pieces
truth exposed –
another piece of cloth,
clothes that fit me (still…)
I’ve walked the house once we built –
shaded by the orchard —
Planted small,
and grew into the barn…

Now both
are gone, and I (unaware)
possess the only picture
of how it was…
the broken yard and crooked gate,
cattle nursed by a patch of
weed (and will…)
a swing of mismatched
boards…slouched below
outstretched arms
an oak —
your father planted
(your mother cursed)…

Was there
we loved…
(as no one ever had),
feather mattress
stuffed and stitched (new)
for us, and wrapped
in sacks of blue…
We spoke in hushed whispers
(secrets tumbling)
to the flicker of a flame
burnt the mantle black —
shadows melted (moments)
long ago
(but not so) far…

finished
before the start became
an end was writ…
I never understood…

in the quiet still
before I find you (first)
I breathe,
The world
that I remember…
is again…
a feather swept
(across) my soul;
words uttered to silence;

this –
memory of yet to be
and the smell
of burning pine…