I live between the bus stop
and something I can’t explain,
between the night sounding
with green leaves and a few
visible stars, between a horse
and philosophy wondering
if it is a great clenched fist
that keeps me from my life.
Now I live between my mother’s
death and my own. I close
my eyes and see a different
darkness. Under the trees
wind falls through my hair.
You were a place, Mother.
I’ve always wanted to be a place,
a destination with a park bench.
I’m afraid I’m only the weather.
Night is miles off approaching
like a storm. I’ve sat so long
it is like traveling. I’ve watched
the sun move out of the shade
and the shade move into the sun.
From Birches. Copyright © 2019 by Carl Adamshick. Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Four Way Books.