To a Friend at Rilke’s Grave in Raron a soft song—a clinking of spoons when the world draws them The pines trees know how the dark hum like a promise. And if it is a promise I stand in bare feet near my rucksack to his grave. The mountains offer distance, I barely recall. Just the blue repeating three words that fall from the air And as I whisper them over and over I cannot say the dead don’t move toward its worn jacket on the grass is a spinnaker in the wind as I can—until the shadow of his cross through the mosaic of gravestones near each grave. Cross the corner and then I see you just as you are—awoken the soft green slope of the hill ends don’t forget her, she’s still on the hill, her face in profile, arms resting on knees Aren’t parts of us buried in the lands we meet? sure as flint. There are foxes like wood smoke They know one of their own. They will find you. Finalist, Terrain Poetry Contest 2018, judged by Jane Hirshfield.
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