The day you left
ice came in curtains of water
asking the forest for something
It looked like God had taken his
anger out first on the white birches,
then on last fall’s queen anne’s lace
and dusky golden rod
still left standing in the meadow.
They weren’t the hardest hit.
That would be us. We remained cold and even colder,
my hand wrapped around his small palm.
Your truck bumped up and down.
We watched for the red tail lights until dawn.
But then came the sun and the moon,
and the sun and moon again.
Hallelujah for that,
for it tracked our days.
When I would reach for your skin,
and come back with nothing,
and even more than nothing,
I would come back with space
small enough for a field mouse to fill
but bigger than everything else on earth,
I whispered to myself amen.
by Beret Skorpen-Tifft
from Autumn Sky Poetry Number 9, March 2008
photo by Christine Klocek-Lim