for Pui
The frogs have started their whistling.
The Black Walnut tree holds onto its green hulls
that will hit the ground in the fall. Beside the tree,
an idle retention pond stands covered by moss.
Jane, the owner of this old farmhouse, told me
that long ago, the pond was good for fire,
if one erupted nearby, or for the comfort
of thirsty cattle. Now she calls it
the Eyesore.
Still, I imagine, like to imagine,
far below, there is ancient water, water
that is glass clear, where my dead daughter
can drink and murmur along with the frogs.
I imagine, beneath the jade muck and decay,
that the story of every person who has ever
visited this house, who has ever tucked
the sheer curtain behind the brass leaf hooks,
opened a window, at least once, for air or to look away
from a stupid mistake, the story of every person
who has needed to hear the high pitched
whistles and squeaks, is gathered in, and finally
understood,
while the frogs offer the only advice possible
Listen.
The frogs have started their whistling.
The Black Walnut tree holds onto its green hulls
that will hit the ground in the fall. Beside the tree,
an idle retention pond stands covered by moss.
Jane, the owner of this old farmhouse, told me
that long ago, the pond was good for fire,
if one erupted nearby, or for the comfort
of thirsty cattle. Now she calls it
the Eyesore.
Still, I imagine, like to imagine,
far below, there is ancient water, water
that is glass clear, where my dead daughter
can drink and murmur along with the frogs.
I imagine, beneath the jade muck and decay,
that the story of every person who has ever
visited this house, who has ever tucked
the sheer curtain behind the brass leaf hooks,
opened a window, at least once, for air or to look away
from a stupid mistake, the story of every person
who has needed to hear the high pitched
whistles and squeaks, is gathered in, and finally
understood,
while the frogs offer the only advice possible
Listen.
