Plastic lilies will remember
this wind long after we’re dirt,
years past my last breath,
a whisper empty of the beautiful
truths that shook treetop leaves
and almost reached my ears.
And an airport road, where
buzzards land more than planes,
will echo the Khmer melodies
and snake guitar from an April
moon when I swerved around
vagabond deer, but accelerated
headlong into my ghost days.
“This is how a lake should begin,”
that’s what I’ll tell Em when we
talk about the water-filled hole
left where a tree couldn’t take
what the sky had to say.
“Who needs dynamite and dams,”
I’ll likely slur, “when you have strange
weather and buzzards in the wings?”