too often

too often we long

for the things that consume us

only to hold them at bay

-as if there were virtue in restraint

as if the river invented the dam

or the tree the saw

i know you

i know who you are

as if you were Jacob arriving at the well

and i

i had just drawn down my jar

what good

you asked me what I had done with your letters

-if I had even opened them-

if I had read them

I might have known then that you left her;

that you were coming in the spring.

and what can I say but that I might have?

I might have but, there were so many other things

-the sky in April seemed endless, cloudless

and I couldn’t stop searching it.

in May I hung the laundry out to dry in the still cool air.

when I made my bed it smelled of wind, of dew.

in June the strawberries bloomed and ripened

just like always in the shelter near the door.

what can I say – your letters

I might have read them, but what good would it have done?

what good would it have done

without you here to speak the words?