March 29

March 29 

 

It will hurt. The empty
pages of a lost book

you can never read again:
Now you know what it is

to write. To take a walk.
The boxwoods whisper

only the prurient details,
the red maples an advocacy

of lifting secrets suddenly
light as squirrels. Everything

that comes close to the light
scatters its shadow farther from

the shape of what we felt,
the dark fret where footprints

filigree the sorrowful soil
of another rich season.

3 thoughts on “March 29

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