Poem for Rebecca Wight

Inside a valley 
arranged in tableau—once, 
my hidden year, 
no one noticed we lay down 
in grass & leaves 
where later I buried 
my letter, where I wrote 
how it was.
Do you remember 
the coil of a literal phone line, 
print of a body’s missing 
breath. It’s hard to write 
the ancient years 
when you are midlife 
as a creek running 
hills of hardwoods. 
A hollow 
of her face 
off the forested 
page & all the books 
we read to find ourselves 
unseen. Who drew you 
a thousand grieving seeds.