in winterkilled
grass you find an arrowhead
your knees locked on dirt
saying look what I found.
tonight the planet leans toward its star.
if I listen better
I’ll hear you, each time
your head turns, expectations,
moonlight washing bare
the sidewalk, lawns, roofs
on the briefest day/longest night
of the year. straightening elbows
you smooth away the dirt
holding the arrowhead to the palm
like a consequence
a great secret half-forgotten.
we start home moving slowly
and in sleep return
to a dream assembly of questions
an unfinished calling
and an open window.