I am as distant as the land before your nearsighted eyes, across a meridian
of crossings as you came and went before my sighs. It was winter
and the course of the river behind your small cabin had detoured overnight.
We were searching for pronouns, some sentient hand in the river’s new bend.
Yet no beavers,
no lumberjacks could be found for us to point and blame. Something changed
and you knew something had changed. Perhaps it was the lack of a reason
or some everlonging desire that moved you so quickly to jump
and skip over once buried boulders and the remains of springtime.
It was a search without a subject. Like some ancient mystic wandering the wood
looking for God under rocks and in dried creek beds. I wait
until evening before heading home. You never gave up and still greet
roadsigns as markers of your failure.
The river is wide yet shallow. Too murky to see clearly to the bottom.
Before sunrise you return, each day to a day of searching. Between your crawfish traps
and your firm, rising dough the days are simply passing and we both know
that by the end of June I’ll depart into the wilderness of Boston’s streets.