distant point

they were shabby, little homes
–from the hillside, looking down
upon their shallow basin
against the mottle
they looked like the gravestones
staggered, and strewn
of an ancient cemetery, forgotten
amid a shrubby topiary
of small trees, browned
the gray of yearning’s desertion
stretching nearly
to the horizon
of the next rise
of hills

here, we spend our days
loving, within its confines
here, in our spade-cut valley

there is no time
in heaven
–the thought arrived
the winters have numbed our wounds
there is no time
in heaven
and this time
here, lingering
is as
going blind, slowly
watching those colors, loved
fall into the sky’s white billow

grown, we watch our children
into the tall heather
a frolicking tangle
of uncombed carelessness
cotton shirt-backs curled ‘round
freedom’s drafty promise
eyes falling
to a distant point
we watch
knowing that– this
everything loved
shall never be

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