You, or the mystery of you, pulled a cart
down the crow path. The cart, full of empties
and premonitions, wobbled its rocky song,
the empties clinking their own clear notes.
I couldn’t fault you anymore, despite
the oil stains on your shirt, the one frayed
seam that sliced your pocket to a wider grin.
I stitched the shape of you to the cloudless sky.

Now when I close my eyes, the why of you
rides seamless above the salvia. Hummingbirds
buzz the feeders. At night I pace the garden
and quiz the moon. How to reconcile the stars.
You and your small boat somewhere
daring the wind, me here wishing for rain.