August 17th, 2011

At the Table

Everything before us, returned again
by letting it go, to know it is the same
where you found me in a memory of you
spreading a worn cloth of linsey-woolsey
and lunch wrapped in checkered dish towels
The spruce still grows there and its roots
clutch the smooth stepping stones unevenly
in their own recall of the blush in trembling
This small house was little more than a cabin
and was made from where it will forever spring