Beyond Goodbyes

 

Every single thing you see came from the loins of this planet.
Earth stirs and folds itself, swallows and surges—
the only added weight, is the success of mitosis and the rise
of the seas. Away from people he is humbled.

Think of wind as the air's disagreement settled; revelling; gravity's splint.
Gone day. Black trees shaking, enunciated with an S.

When you move away from people, they shrink and shrink to dots,
then imaginary specks, and what's left is what's always been there.

He's tried to forget the grass in her rolling hair,
dress hitched heavenward, toes curl,
crease the skin like a father's tears. Ferns were too tall then,
as they are now, there's something nostalgic in the wind.

(He stops. Smells the ground in the air
—and for a moment      )


The paths through the fields get longer, the air thinner.
"Good," he says, "good," as he quickens his stride,
knowing each walk ends in a building, and skin.