When I Walk

I can hardly imagine what to do
when I walk in sun browned alfalfa,
hearing the swish of horse’s tails,
the buzz of their flies,
and I arrive at the willow where
we buried my mother’s ashes.
Not knowing is the space
of compassion.
Let one gold ocean of breath
be taken, held, and offered
like a rimless cup that spills
distant stars into the invisible.
What are a thousand poems
compared to the yearning
of the shadow for its cause?
Words are tears of silence.
I keep returning to this meadow
year after year, like the arrow
floating back to the bow.
I keep falling down to press
my face into new-mown hay grass,
fragrant, fresh
with summer rain.


Photo: the willow where my parent's ashes are buried.