Living half in memory
stitched with fragile thread.
Waiting on replies
to pledges never said.

Held the hands of storms,
drunk on joy and fear.
Kissed through rain,
like lovestruck fools
when endings felt too near.

left some names behind,
held a few too close,
one who lit the match,
one who loved us most.

The tractor coughed diesel,
choking on enlistment.
Pappaw watched,
relieved he won, without a fight.

I dug potatoes.
Hated gnats, the stooping,
dirt worked into my soul.
“We can’t eat what you don’t find.”

I carry his voice,
like gravel.

When I’ve had enough of soft things,
I take it out,
to hold my ground.

I am ten crows, twenty-three starlings,
one tree, a world of racket, every dusk that ever was.

I am a holy heart four angels defend,
other times I am nothing but flesh and fingertips.

There are four seasons, three necessities,
two sides to the moon.

The window has eight panes;
I am in them all.