2 Corinthians 4:4

While there was still some smoke in the sky, 
the last monarch butterfly passed over Texas
and the ground broke beneath summer-worn sneakers;
tomorrow, tomorrow we would rest.


We lift up our eyes; our roots are dry
and through the tents and shields of our aging skin
we can no longer make out the stars.


All is so silent here, a needle
moving slowly through white fabric
or grey wings lighting on a far-away rock. 
(But press your face into the tide and see: 
the undertow of loneliness moves 
like blunt scissors on cords of kindness.)


We keep photos of once-sweet rivers 
flowing through our open fingers
and week-old birthday cake holds its form;
were you to taste it, the dust would stick 
so thickly to your tongue--
always pretty at a distance.


There's a mountain we've heard of 
that the salty current cannot touch, 
where a great feast awaits those who come--


But sit with us and watch the leaves change
with leftovers tucked deeply in your pockets--
watch as grass withers and flowers fade,
as snowflakes hush all spinning wheels.

Sit with us and stay a while.