Near Bluefield a long haul truck plunges
through a tunnel’s silence
and a ghost of echoes follows it home.
I reject certain facts for my own pleasure.
There may be a home, there may be a sound, there may be some applause
when that tree falls in that one-handed forest.
I know I have enough dandelions in my unkempt lawn
to defy the passage of time.
A stone, big as my thumb, dislodged by a pigeon,
rolled down my hill yesterday.
It sits on my dresser, a small monument in honor
of every chance that’s ever come my way.
I light a candle for breakfast, think about the distances
between then and now.
I’m holding the door open for what I think may be the song
the young woman in the grocery
said reminded her of me.
Tonight, the moon stands tiptoe in the mackerel clouds,
its shimmering halo pierced by Jupiter.
I can hear the stars singing that young woman’s name.
I keep the door open.
I listen for those echoes to come singing through the forest.
I wait for the trucker carrying a song
filled with enough silence to whisper the truth.
I open my arms for it, for her, open myself to the chance
it was never her song alone, but ours.