The dandelions in the moment and then

It is. And needles don’t fall;
cones don’t fall. The soil keeps

holding the grass seed and the dune
sand beneath is still torn by thirsty,

wooden hands. By bedrock
is where will be my tenoned pine.

And the grass seeds don’t split,
their shoots don’t spill. The clouds

remain, widely. That locked closet
inside will never have its tumblers

turned. Honestly, all I had
was the only lie—that I could be

the one who evades. Sparrows
don’t fall, no owl falls. Left behind

are her thin hands, a box full
of ribbons, a bolt, a knife.

Photographs with anybody’s faces.
Hungry letters, angry letters about

a time and people and love that is
not. No image holds its meaning

within itself. Not one dandelion fell.
Please. Something did happen here.


Copyright © 2015 by CJ Evans. Used with permission of the author.

About this Poem

“I have a little box of objects that are very important to me, but are otherwise worthless. When I die they will become trash. These few objects that rely on the context of me to be valuable will be changed, even if nothing else is. The words in this poem came from William Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying.”
CJ Evans