From a Deep Place, and: Dear God, and: Arrangements

From a Deep Place

Their son has sent them letters richwith oxygen and limestone, suchdark no word will name, no pen

draw, their blank daily envelopeeach time he looks at them, each hopepulled back if they touch his hand.

Dear God

The neighbor playing on the pile of slagcuts his breath short for you. Birds grow new wings.We came this far to throw the earth away

like night sky, where once we knew the stories,star to star, until they warned about ourselves.The neighbor playing on the pile of slag

dug forts in poison, sliding down the hill.The elm had leaves, the creek its slithering trout.We came this far to show the world a way,

to move it over there, to plant our tree, our home,and call them good, and stop our fretting forthe neighbor. Playing on his miles of slag,

he's turned a scaly gray. He's holding outa slithering hand. Dear God, protect us from him.We came this far to know the world a way

to help our spirits find you. We did your willand killed the crow, the river out and in,the neighbor playing on a pile of slag.We went that far, down through the earth, away.

Arrangements

Once every spring the yard comes togetherand our older selves, in the sun's lull,lean into each other on the bench,where we still whistle back at cardinals

and worry, in an idle way, aboutdelphinium and hosta, the bestdepth for mulch, whatever our sins have beenor have become as day turns to dusk.

The bugs won't appear for another week,and young grass won't burn. Apple blossomsburst pink on the branch. We loved each otheronce like these May arrangements, like some

brittle yard singing with birds and worms. Wecould never enjoy the rust that sinksfinally to the speared leaf, or this achethe body makes, moving on. Forgiving

had joined the slow parade against one day'sperfection, and it pulled us muscleand bone without our knowing to the nextplace, where we could find our way to fail.