perhaps the day will come
when we will leave the creek,
and round bales will sit
only in the meadows
of memory,
like the hushed sound
when a circular saw,
cutting through plywood
stops,
and sawdust
is drifting in sunbeamed air.

perhaps we can fold
the four corners of a moment
into the center;
open it
in nights to come
to catch the scent
of grass and clover
in the dark

make a petal fold, a valley fold,
a series of mountains fold,
fold an imaginary embrace
in such a way
that it becomes
something that really happened
in memory

things past,
we can be forever sure of.
the moon shining
on a meandering creek
like molten silver on black silk.
a red bird like a bow
on a package, leaving wounds and feathers
on a window.  leaves dropping
in silence after the first frost
of october....

we can only be unsure
of what will happen next.  the slant
of light as the sun declines
is a knife, separating the creek
and us
from old age
and abandonment