Saturday, August 25, 2007
tall grass grows
round the remembrance of your face
is hidden by
the undulating green
frozen by snow
the sleep of bears, yawning blossoms
the ache of bones, both growing and forgotten
what questions did your eyebrows raise?
what histories could be traced by the slope of your nose?
strange to miss the things we no longer need
strange to want for things we’ve always carried deep
all we ever need, is a shovel