He was never gone enough—
he was never here—
he may be on the ocean
or in the sand
or above both in the air—
All he loved he wedded
to others
and all he warred
he widowed—
He made himself
a spring wind
to blow with dry rain
across what once was fertile—
He made himself
the crescent of moon
that rimed the morning before
the third rising of the sun—
What he had been
he cannot be—
What he has become
lies abandoned
with his garden—
Glistening with the last
evening’s frost,
the stone bird reaches
with frozen wings
in feathers of a riddle.
