I dream of rowboats dry-docked
in my garden, their oars clipped
like wings at their sides.
In the afternoons, where
chrysanthemums and clover grew,
how the quiet begins to thicken
as the light drops. Did we really
row all this way, and are we here
now after so many years? An owl
visits the same tree each night: why
doesn't it seem to have aged? What will
I do when the wood withers and night-
calls of birds rise above the wells
of human speech, when the plums
that were green can't hold their stones
anymore and just deepen into sweetness?