The Nine Day Ricochet
(4 of 5)
Laurian, in your death, little songs emerged out of time
like lilies, white lilies, in January. How You Left
an Earth and Other Occurrences: a sequence rebels
like melodic children in a book
God won’t stop writing in funny flesh.
Friday frost arrived on your grave, a white touch.
I waited down on your porch steps, believing
the spirit continues its quiet routine a life suggests.
(a wonderful valley to inhabit dream you are
the bodiless parts the fog you leave behind
only many seasons and seasons’ songs)
I read again your notes on old almost poems
I had forgotten I attempted
introducing you in new ones, seeing
your soft purple coat still hangs from a strong cedar
peg in your closet like an empty song.
There is a silent grief in the trees, juggling
squirrels, that is not magic, but almost it’s wind.