The wind blew from the west
this evening
and I felt the weight
of carrying the tune myself
when it used to be so easy
to hear your song
carried through the valley.
I can’t quite get it right,
the mixture 
of laugh and bass
with clear words of love
decanted through nettles.

sweeping past anything blue,
training my eye to see shadow
dare I count steps
to reach beyond the small point
on the horizon
marking the end of all I know

I don’t know what “constant” is
– I have no context
for anything that remains

how gently did we hold
the wind before it shook
and left us laughing
at our folly
– there is no constant
where shadows crawl
and there is still the unknown

how is the heart
of a dark continent
pounding within and calling
as I sit so carefully
on my porch,
waving to neighbors
and taking tea?

why is the “someday”
I read about
never here?

when I place a note
inside my book
to keep my place-
to keep my heart from floating
above me
like a rare twisted pentecostal votive,
it burns inside
but is imminently safer
than opening
and casting my fiery breath
too far
across my pastoral scene

what if it’s too late
when I finally arrive?