It’s a great day to give up
on self-reflection. To enter
the forest near your house in silence
and stand still, nothing
at the center but green
and the freshly fallen leaves
already curled at their edges—
detritus of spirit and of song,
the one we’ve wanted to write
but can’t figure out how.
In another world,
we’ll walk adjacent through the woods,
bathing in the sounds of birds.
You’ll ask me to identify
the bird with the particular scar,
the one that visits the feeder
but never stays. You’ll want to know
what kind of cheese I want
with my wine, and you’ll offer me a gift:
the acorn from your pocket
you found while I was away.
Perhaps the song was always
being written, even before
you leaned against the side
of the mountain and learned
that love always leads to loss.
Before the house with its strange corners,
the dreams of angels in the trees.