We have been trying to sort the cottonwood leaves
into memories. Have been trying to disappear
inside a crow call. Is this the scrim of the night river,
the living fabric we stitch from blood and bone?
We sleep, we wake, and decades pass. And when I rise
to find you standing at the window, there is snow
beyond your shoulder, spring grass, falling leaves,
a dust devil trying to form a living shape.
Once we lived inside the throat of it, but now
our breaths are bitter with the earth, or light
as the prayers that lift like smoke then disappear.