• Vol. 10
  • Chapter 12
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The leaving and the left

so much water over the dam
so much under the bridge

we make our leafy way from year
to year sprout soft then brittle

into gold before we leap
this day, for instance, the road

snakes us through the fog’s grey
breath and the mountains still

summer green from heavy rains
hesitate into October’s arms

our sighs count the highway’s
galloping stripes mile markers

and minutes clock themselves
against our odometers our watches

long ago you read me Pound’s poem
about the young wife’s longing

for her love’s return.

"By the gate now, the moss is grown"
we’ve grown older too


The leaving and the left

the path leads us into the hilly
future, leaving what’s past behind

blue and weightless.