Nine hundred years, about, since mimosa
blooms waked homeplace. Abscission for fathers
came too, and sons. Not me. I propose a
rock plunged here’d find chimney. “Who bothers
with dousing the deep,” you may ask, “for stone?”
Junkyard, high wall, timber road, tater patch.
Eventual’s how I end up. Alone
with centuries, the ridges seas catch
in tides, then totality. Island strands
drowned out hillshape memory. Seasons slurred
deciduous. Tree skeletons made stands
like giant coral, leaves falling upward.
Anymore I convene just with spirits
anymore, that’s all who’s left to hear it.
