This morning memories turned back
on you floating in shadow and light,
a glass of wine in your eyes,
floating in the pond you would take
with you into poems.
The woods will never let me sleep.
I’ve gone back to Connecticut and found
our old friends dying or almost blind
or gone, their houses inhabited
by memories the new tenants
will never know, intruders
who pull up fences, drain ponds,
sweep leaves to mulch.
Your poetry explains it all.
There are no second comings,
only green veils of rain
and thick-tongued leaves
stubbornly clinging to the absent tree
beside the absent pond.