FROM BOOK OF THE LITTLE PAST
I made a picture with my breath.
What colored it is filled
With death. There was a war
We had to leave, we had to
Store our things away until
Another, brighter day,
And burned the house,
And burned the barn
And hid deep in the wood from harm.
Anyway, when we finally returned
We had already heard the adagios
Where the clouds are able
To get lost. Morning was
Pure frost on all the panes
And we couldn’t see if
This was indeed the place we lost.
It either was the same or gone
Completely. We swept up
The campfire and tried to
Find the foundations of
The house, but they too were
Lost as lost as was our
Morning long ago, standing in the snow
Watching the places go up in flame.
Mother crying softly. the horses
Stomping the ground, breathing
White air and threatening
To tell the story to our dreams
Every Winter night since then.
And so they have until
Today, when once again
Here upon the heath
We have come together underneath
The oak still charred
From the decades of the
War and we have no place
Here any more. It all has
Passed into local lore
That talks of ghosts who
Lived there long ago.
I made a picture with my breath.
“Those islands far away are mine.”
