Trace

what if it was perfume

or acorns stashed in my pockets?

Bits of things remind me 

of you

Lost to me for now

I trace all the 

Alternate 

timelines of our

Would-be existence together

How did you 

sprint past me, Dear?

Leaving perfume, acorns

emptied from the inside out

This pocketful of 

Birnam Wood in my hands,

in my hands, this forest floor

Dirt, mulch, fallen leaves, roots, baby trees…

Saplings, timbers, interlacing 

Limbs outstretched toward the warm 

Light of God who takes away the sins of the world 

…the story we will be.

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