After the Phone Call, I Gaze at the Sky

After the Phone Call, I Gaze at the Sky

Outside, the night is long past dusk.
Clouds weave thickly into themselves.
There is no visible moon to make the dark
look anything but dark.

I’ve let you down.
That isn’t what you say.
I chastise myself anyway.

The snow that was supposed to fall
today—a ninety-percent chance—
did not fall here.

I do not want to disappear.

All over the world, so much persists.
Even beneath the crusted snow, I see
how field grass continues to grow. I notice
how the cottonwood matures, though its
runnelled gray trunk has split.

What I’m saying is I love you.
I don’t know how to say it sometimes
without mentioning the moon, the weather,
the field, the trees. All these things
that carry on despite. They comfort me
tonight as worry nibbles a hole in my side.

Words knit too loose a net sometimes.
We fall through. I tell myself,
the clouds are holding you.

How generous this dark, the way it returns.
How steadfast this grass, this graying bark.


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