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The geese are outside your window.
There is no way to begin. The ground darkens
and ripens as the shadows pass over it like waves
and break on the steps of the house. You have
invented a form, but the old ways are best.
Soon will it be spring? asks the neighbor’s child, no longer
on the windowsill. She is between the trees.
She is out of sight. Your call wraps around
the slender straightness of the woods
and slides underneath the porch steps
to hibernate. You miss warmth. The grain
of the wooden stool parts like a man’s hair,
diverging. The answering machine picks up a call
from the Historical Society, from the landscaper, from
the neighbor calling to see if you’ve seen Anna.
You crave a human voice and your own
is a cheap facsimile. You bite the rim of your ceramic mug.
Life is long. The leaves turn over on the grass. You
are waiting in the study. You write platitudes,
bald statements. Neither satisfy. What I am trying to say
is that I understand how it felt, a little.