la terre perdue

back in my country
we hardly knew what a sunset was
the trees were so dense
weighted with lichen and time

at evening the shadows
of the pines the firs the tamaracks
would crowd the heavens
and on a summer night the sky

would sink into a blue so black
it was the wet ink of fountain pens
it was old work shirts forgotten in the rain
and now a lemony streak of light

would finger each giant’s shadow
and the day birds would cry out
their last words their last words
and now silence and now

the owl would begin to speak