Crossed by crows
the world's gone white.
Where are the ones we miss?
I dismiss cold ground, my eyes caught
by armfuls of berries,
draped by a vine
thickly through branches
facing the kitchen
far up above the woods,
the wooded lot
running between hous [...]
Tillie, I'm writing about you, not knowing
if you're there, if it's there,
the heaven where there's no wonder or worry,
only the glory of having time off.
How could they name you after a nun—
Matilda Cyrilla—and mean it?
In the end, you'd come ou [...]