Margaret Chula
 


                                            alone and brooding
                                            why do I think of you
                                            —it's the honeysuckle
                                            and that certain slant
                                            of early evening light



                                            the essence
                                            of each of these rocks
                                            painted on canvas
                                            one by one we return them
                                            to the river



                                            near-drowning—
                                            I still remember
                                            the silence
                                            and then the sting
                                            of salt water



                                            festive tree lights
                                            on the eve of the solstice
                                              five years ago
                                              I placed a poinsettia
                                              on my father's grave



                                            listening to the priest
                                            chant the Heart Sutra
                                            I part the tendrils
                                            of the weeping willow
                                            and pray for you



                                            lone call
                                            of the screech owl
                                            bridging
                                            midnight to dawn
                                            you, snoring beside me

                                         

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