Strange—
living one small life in the shadow of mountains,
on ground my mother softened with ruts for lilacs
to bloom. Now a moth brings news to my window
each morning              none of it's any good.

A family of deer crosses the corners
of my yard, trampling the fallen chickenwire
fence. Each morning, they pause only to eat
the berries that vine up the posts. I sun with turtles,
choke on mosquitoes with dry earth
on my hands. All of my pets are buried
beneath those pines past the tall grasses
in the field that won't even grow flames.

I've carved from the world
all these quiet moments and still
I get nothing done, still try,
from the dock—each year
a few planks shorter—
to shatter the pond
with chunks of gravel
that never became a driveway.
But the water swallows everything—
some days, it eats the sun.