To the Other Side

It was the only way for him, the arc
of that bridge beyond the field,
past beds of eden rose, larkspur,
the fringe of white birch along
our old station road. It is cruelest
for those left behind, to note
how the birds still come, bring to us
their song, and the creek still babbles,
as we sit on its banks, cloaked
in sunlight, one hand knit
to the other, bound tight, carrying on
in the hush of each day, bearing even
the lack of our own sound.
I can tell you little of where it is
we will go from here, though
we’ve been there, crossed already
the green of this moor, each loss
braiding itself, like sweetgrass,
to the one before. Look, a single
luna moth clings now to the copper
threads of this veil, lingers as spirits
do, waits to teach us how to lift,
to navigate by the flare of its moon.