is a body’s homecoming with dappled rays

& days that give up so young—

I've come to learn that staying alive is to accept

 

the earth's parting & returning. At first scent

of autumn, long before storm,

my father without thinking would wrap himself

 

in layers & search the forest for the moss-covered oak

that would warm us in winter.

We are too precious about memory.

 

November comes with turning clocks to remind us

memory is not trace lines

& lace doilies, but a drumline in our guts.

 

Sometimes I dream of turning back to God

& her curves in chestnut pew,

where my sadness was holy. Sometimes

 

I remember you over the stove on blue mornings.

The way your hands poached eggs,

your comically large grip around a wooden spoon

 

& how I stared down the swirling pot, watching white

ribbons coil around themselves.

Forgive me for returning. It has been so cold.