The Green Pines

You suggest I take you where she was buried.
It’s been years since I drove there
and I’m anxious when I can’t locate it.
I find the pine tree first, taller now,
of course, then the stone and
under her name, a boy’s mossy name.
I pull back from the stain of light
skimming from Lake Erie, the
dates brimming from granite.
Driving back, you confess
you do not have the strength
to deal with my pain.
I don’t understand everything you say
because, half way, words seem to turn back
and return to you. I have to watch you, instead,
and the creek beside the road,
and I’m wondering how one keeps up
with its quickness, which at the same time
slowly moves under the pines.
I see you in the mirror,
radiant as an angel, or maybe as lightening,
or the shining creek that is moving fast
as it is slow under the shadows
of the pines. I’m fine, I say;
it’s just all this light filling up
the holes my eyes have always seen with.

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