Meditation on a Fallen Tree
The words will come to me later.
I will find them after I leave you,
a hundred miles down the road: through 
the skyhole the stars shine brighter.
A reassurance, to fill the longing 
or the accusation  of your silence.
As if it is my job to know words
and how to make it better.  Your job
will be to pretend the tree was
never there.  That our garden
is the same this morning, crushed
stems and twisted flower faces, 
and trenches from tire tracks.
I will know what you want me to say
but the truth is I regret
the lightning.  I regret the loss.


10 September 2001

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