Montana
The stripped gray aisle
of pine, late this spring--
Walking where the moon did,
some soft stellar light
that hinged on the words we
were not saying.
I could feel them left whole
behind my tongue
collected in the breath that
spilled white
from my mouth.
What was due to me was in
the wind that passed between
our hands, everything
in that space, as it unraveled--
The north, come again, your eyes
lit sharp, and the needles
rolled quickly between
rough callous, crushed and wild--
These things, a watch,
a calendar's worth of
empty sky--
How we move away from
all that rain renews,
hearts silent,
hearts singing.