I wear the dead one’s name

in a string of skulls

flowering around my neck

 

its whispered

promises of frail nests

concealed in chalky earth.

 

In the garden

early morning blackbird

trills for the skeleton

we all know is buried

under the apple tree

 

by now

the blue corner stone

deposited by glaciers

has moved full circle

around the house

 

the ravens

the herons

the beavers

have all made

their way

here again:

 

we’ve come back

to the place

where our sighs

thicken around us,

gathered into

the horizon line.