The old dirt road will lead you to it, eventually:
a depression visible through the gaps among the tall grass,
the air terribly lonely where a bridge should have been.
The descent will be difficult. The banks are steep
and riddled with roots and insects and mud.
But the brook will be there--the daily chorus of rocks
gurgling the sweet water, the dragonflies balanced
curiously above the laughter of lilies and fish,
the visiting kingfisher, blue, chest puffed, proud.
Late this afternoon a letter arrived from some country,
some memory, some small movement in the soul.
It had nothing to do with the brook, but still
I walked out of the house to stare at the gathering night
and to weep for the little deaths--the day's demise,
the loss of color, the brook I will not visit in the darkness
nor come back to, ever again. Return is the tragedy of time,
rotting the spoiled places, inconsolable by presence.
We handle grief by moving. Distance makes it intense.
