the question that I posed once long ago

what sky do you see and how do you know

stays with me still after all these years

he did not dismiss it not even then

sat down beside me and aimed his gaze with mine

so that we both looked upwards

Into the endless shimmer of a hot afternoon

the horizon melting into forever

time itself turned liquid by the burning sun

our shared silence hung heavy in the air

not rent even by a mosquito’s buzz

we shrugged and went inside for a cold drink

unwilling to climb such a high brick wall

in the humid weather of a Mississippi summer

we did not say goodbye

did not know this time to be the last

so we did not linger over tea

pausing between each sip

to look over the cup at each other

we did not let our hands clasp

even briefly as to register dear kinship

a touch of thanks for time spent deeply

a felt recognition of common ground

in the end this does not matter

the moments themselves have passed beyond

their taste their flavor their faint perfume

remain and I am grateful

I walked the fields with my father every year

learned the rise and fall of hills and fences

where the streams and rain would run

I knew the houses and the barns

the stories of who built them and burned them

why the one small cabin stood alone

I sat in warm kitchens with elderly neighbors

listened to their yarning of who what and where

marked their passing when they died and mourned

yet I knew these stories would die with me

though grafted into my very core

I’ve walked too lightly to leave much behind

only a few words collecting dust on the table