where you lived.

Time is broken over and over and over and

then I wait

in the pick up truck.

Teal of cloud spacers, silver lining or chrome

or hot handles.

It's always July.

Legs stuck to white vinyl.

Churn the window roller. Humid but fresh,

edge of the lawn baking. Drive so steep and winding it's a draw bridge.

Remember sketching the forest to life. Framed by magnets. Pride of place. Rug runner sticky

spilled

V8

juice.

Glass front cabinets holding

treasure rocks

an other things that I can't recall.

I don't

care about anything.

Except that windchime

made of bits of petrified wood,

too fragile to ever see

the view from the portico.

Never saw red of the awning, lattice climbing with spotted ivy,

Never heard us talking

about the weather.

I still obsess about mummified trees.

Maybe you dreamed it too.

Traveled rutted ruins

fallen fellows.

Needles of pine. But you don't get get it.

No

One

Does.

Soft bed, smooth blanket turned crisp, lost to the wind.

Sawmill stirring worry down the hill.

Trees never died.

They sacrificed to fences, furniture, and once a hope chest carved with my name.

I hope there's a rickety gate beyond.

Never asked what you believed of heaven or hymns, though you sang

I have tapes with your voice.

But I can't rewind them.