Middle Winter 
I raid old conversations like a graverobber.
I dig, near the mausoleum, by the stone
with no name. I dig, the clouds snap
like sheets on a line in the February wind
that hip-deep into the ground is only a whisper.
I have thrown the shovel up onto the uncut gray grass,
which covers it in the wind like an old man’s hair.
I use smaller tools, like an archaeologist or someone
looking for the bones of a creature nobody else
will believe in until they see it. The edge of a letter
appears.Then words: “Better return home.” There’s
more underneath but it’s getting dark here in my past,
there’s a fox watching me from a few graves away
and a cardinal in the elm, and a feeling that I have
missed something, the feeling is so strong that it
stands next to me, tapping me on the shoulder,
gesturing and pointing but it’s so dark I lose sight
of it and hear the the dry hum of tires on the access
road, a car door opening and the squawk of a radio.
Whoever guards this place is drawing near and it’s not me.
Hip deep into the ground is only a whisper.