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| Spring snow in Upper Turkeyfoot |
A woman in Wyoming told him once,
with snowflakes in her hair,
when it snows there in July
cowboys debate
as to whether it's the last snow
or the first, as if Wyoming
were a land of just two seasons.
But in his older, worn-down hills
his two seasons seemed to be,
did another love him still
or not, his fate?
Lasts are hard to know.
Juncos through the glass,
will they leave today
for colder north?
As she stood there on the porch,
waving as he headed for the air,
was she crying?
She still disturbed his sleep.
The end of things is mostly a surprise.
Returning from Land's End
to find an empty, quiet house
missing furniture and spoons,
at the ragged edge of absence,
was it last or first,
and did he weep?
