She calls across the pasture.
Over here, I answer.
Grasses shrink
from her big yellow teeth
as she approaches—
weeds don’t know
a mare’s gentleness.
And I still miss you.
Clouds pause.
Wildflowers hurtle
seeds into cracks
beneath the interstate,
open into
poppies
that catch fire
in the sunset.
And I still miss you.
Ancient forests are burning.
Smoke dissipates, like exhaust
from an old bus,
like the Rainier beer we poured over cemetery grass,
killing it. And I still miss you.
The rain will return,
it always does. The wind
will have business elsewhere—
trees to terrorize,
crows’ feathers to blow across a river.
And I still miss you.
Trish Saunders lives in Seattle, works as a freelance editor, and has published poems in numerous publications.
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