Today the sky is flat, a paint chip.
The leaves are mute, the air cannot
be felt. Broad light hides shadows.
There is nothing here.
Yesterday has the laughter that
you wear, a smirk, half-held.
Honey, thyme, and salt of you,
the low whine of moans exalt,
make fault lines shift, collapse,
so that we can’t go back but
in your hands I trust the other
side has every vibrant thing.