Your Things

Where now have you gone? They ask.

Where now will we be things?

In the blink of an eye you’ve left,

And now we are fog among the trees:

The grand piano whose keys are comforted by dust,

The pliers and screwdriver, the hammer, the wires,

The brick we laid in the backyard, and a cheek filled with sun,

The garage we painted blue green, the trees’ limbs we cut,

The weeds we pulled, the bursting orange

And its vanilla smelling blossom,

The stucco and the chess board,

The boxed wine, the creaking stairs and floorboards,

The sour taste of wood sorrel,

The hummingbird fluttering at the bird feeder,

The stone fruit, the spectacles and ring,

The sharp cheddar, and the dried meats,

The roses, the tree stump, the paper thin bark,

The fireplace, the mantel, and the hallway of faces,

The window with a view of the emerald hill,

The branches scraping fingers across the glass,

The lances of light in the living room,

The burgundy fence, and the candy shampoo,

The wiry cats, the flaming dove,

And the family of skunks upon the roof.

Now we are fog among the trees,

And in the blink of an eye you’ve left.

Where now will we be things?

Where now have you gone? They ask.