Something of immediacy holds out,
Reluctant to leave, and plys a sense
Of resurgence in bee balm's purple shoots
Poking through around the ruins.
To leave unchosen books behind
On the shelf may affect one thing,
But another to have left them for
Four pearls in an envelope.
My mother never says
what they mean to her. Someone
found them, diving off the coast
and left them with a desk clerk
for her. Venezuela, 1936.
No message. She wanted
to know and stayed another year.
No one came, and she
She pulls her sled along the woods road
to the hill where cows sleep
between rocks in summer. Nothing is on her mind.
Her chair pushed back
from the breakfast table,
milk streaks wiped away
are tracks filling in behind her
with a light snow.
She has [...]