in chalk you drew a line

between the Wilderness

and our childhood

spent in gardens we thought

were wild, walls we imagined

endured for centuries

and food we saw

in miracles.

 

your chalk was pink and orange

and sunset, summer days

washed back by spring

snow melt in your eyes when you said

you were leaving, when you said

so was i.

 

ivy and weeds force their way between my toes

occupy the palm you used to hold

as we went running through labyrinths

we pretended not to see in progress,

shears nipped out of memories

like tags removed from clothes.

 

you always swore we’d come back;

you always said you can’t go back

can’t replace the Wilderness spreading over the hills

into the vast horizon dripping in stories

with a plain old kitchen garden

as practical as our futures.

 

i’m sorry to say i didn’t listen--not then

and not now as i leave the car running

door ajar, coat half-buttoned

shuffling through the broken gate

between ruined beds and gravel spread

like fish scales on the grass.

 

it really is a kitchen garden, neat (or was)

with onions, parsnips, chives and herbs

that flutter faint on the breeze.

half dry, half dead, half naturalized

wandering out into 

a different kind of wilderness.

 

without you here, i fall into a squat

squint my eyes

clench my fists

and through blurred vision,

remember how our horizon

never ran out of sun.