Late States of Being

There were moments after dusk when sky was a deep silk rinse, a grace in receding. You wanted those moments more than others. Evenings clouded over left the mind pacing for windows.

From the attic where you grew green edgings of moss along the north roof have begun turning shingles to sod; faint ceiling brocades of watermark deepen where rain once leaked through. You’ve helped empty the farmhouse for sale.

There come days when you can’t tell how to be anymore. You are water in the landscape: in crowds you move to the perimeter, wanting out. If someone speaks, you don’t know how to answer.

•     •     •

Some daily alarm is taking hold, but through all the versions, friends and family have been living and talking normally. You stand among them, so they don’t know, either, where you’ve gone. You think words like bloodroot, feel the current of underground streams in the soles of your feet.

One night you dream of faint steam rising from earth turned by your father’s plow and wake remembering the smell of horses.

You anticipate walking back along blue timothy fields to appear with the deepening mist near an ancient poplar

at the very moment you disappear from the view of house panes.