orphan or take a parent’s child. The tree will soon
articulate its loss, first flush, then naked limbs.
Geese announce their disciplined direction.
They won’t turn back. What can I discover from
their V shaped flight? My dear brother, you claim
faith in poems to get us through. Here, hold these
words until they bloom to flame like candle, then
turn them into water, sprinkle everything you find
with or without the chance to grow. Who’s to say
the likelihood? Let’s train each muscle’s syllabus
of love no matter the attempts to rip it raw.
The rickety bridge under my bare feet, time filled
body, and yours, is broken, too, but someone
drew its design, measured, cut and nailed. Now
with spit, paste, memory, hammer, grit and what’s
still not known, we’ll mend each part and keep walking –
