do you remember when my mother died years from now. the snow perched on your lashes like sparrows. i prefer some things, or most, to just remain simple.

the horse’s leg broke on a Sunday, so you were likely to forgive her, but kept the phone book closed. winter wanted to take the sun away. so it did.

two mornings ago, the river up & left. i didn’t hear a thing. not you, not leaves or crunches of snow, not their bed croaking awake. you bought sticky notes & scotch tape for me to keep reminders of absent items. brook trout, pennies, bottle caps, algae that once retained the rocks. i held your spit like a tablecloth, dearest. the syrup escapes the house the fastest way, its tires coughing snow in the neighbor’s ditch. i know i apologized already. but i’m elbow-deep in building a new water table, & we won’t have rain for months. it’s fate or something related to it, where things disappear to. you can go, i promise. leaving is an option only you can make. the unripe bananas can stay unripe in the basket. i have digging to do.