Summer should not
be ripe for sadness not
when trees toss their hair
like casual schoolgirls
but stand otherwise still,
cool in blind assurance
like feckless flowers
or fruit waiting to fall
from the vine.
The world overflows
with secrets but crows
jeer no matter the season.
I hear them laughing
in the mornings knowing
they will be fat
as plums on the snow
when our ground is frozen,
our branches whip thin.
I toss my hair and flutter
my fingers but otherwise
am still at the window.
I can't pretend sovereignty
over trees or plums but here
stories in squirrels, pines,
dragonflies, nothing
like people but animate
them to feel something,
to glimpse an uncle
in the forsythia brush,
a grandfather shadow
in slanting afternoon.
I've been meaning to tell you
that the sky is closer
to the earth here. It's brighter,
the clouds have more
dimension. I've been meaning
to tell you but I don't
know who you are,
just that you are fleeting
as a butterfly wing
or dandelion fluff.
When the moon rises
I quicken the stars, beg
them to whisper my name,
gather tears in the palm
of my hand and pretend
they are mother's, sister's.
I fly into the night to comfort
the moon and tell it we are
some kind of family.
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