To drive down a country road
Moving forward, looking back
Thinking I might record the backwards motion
Yearning to stop for no reason except a still lake, except a red barn motionless, except an enormous bale of hay like a lazy good natured animal sunning purposefully.
And then returning not having done any of that but the anchor of next time the anchor that starts to drop from my head to the world loosening from the nethers into the void of dropping
And, knowing suddenly brightly (like I know a death that’s come) that the trees have always been with me (in different shapes and sizes) from the very beginning the ones lining the road, the old ones outside my children’s window, the pine trees with the pine cones that I’d never seen before (evergreen), the one that made me afraid to pull back bark, the one holding the songbirds outside my grandmother’s window in the yellow distance of the day when my knowing rose like it rises now with them
(silent swaying living watchers)