Sometimes a column
of stacked stones is not
a column of stones,
but a single stone
sculpted to resemble
many—and thinking
about that might tell
you something about
the dance of atoms
in an artist’s hand
as she drips umber
on a taut canvas—
and you might think of
how all art tends to
gesture toward dust
motes uncertainly
dappling the sunlight
falling on teacups
and hardwood floors in
a memory you
can’t quite pin down—like
a butterfly a
lepidopterist
has immobilized
or immortalized
or simply studied
but in any case
has pierced—and of course
moments are like that—
and a pond and green
hills and the tall grass
bowing down to wild-
flowers that rise up
in sudden tiny
Augusts all their own—
and something I can’t
quite say about time
and holding onto
a handful of sod
a lump of grief sung
into the landscape
from an open door
