Oranges hang heavy, past the moment for picking.
They drop, blood-filled, in little explosions of dust.
At the funeral, dirt falls without a sound.
The hill beyond is greener than it’s ever been.
My days scratch themselves out, lines on a page.
Did I tell you that I’ve forgotten how to sing?
The loons still nest on northern lakes.
Their liquid cry cuts the mist open to shoal and shore.
A wolf-wind blows through my empty home.
I watch the sky thicken, wishing the rain would never end.
