Here the trees have their spirits broken
when the Buck moon comes, enlarged,
between the downpours and drought
on days when a curtain of beading rain
covers the oaks, the maples, and sycamores
and the wind in turn is singing of love.
The mad inclinations of weather
make the scales of river fish glint
below the green water, as we smile
and birds migrated here are ploughing
the head winds, as old spirits
carouse a finger length from us.
Passersby believe in seeing you
they see a ghost that breathes
the air of old years contained here.
This is home. The names we name
unknown elsewhere are sounds
familiar to us and only us
a river of stars overhead wavers
but at last remains the same
and only we ever change.
Grey Sparrow Journal 