WINTER WAS HARD
snow up my shin, slow
through the mile of the forest
come to where I had cut
branches heavy with leaves
they always used to bother us
on the ends of our walks
dipping and kissing our heads
as we crossed the bridge
something alert near the edge
in a crop of brown weeds
machete stuck handle-first
buried in the earth
flew out of my hands
cutting too recklessly
thought I lost it last August
trimming the tree ends
couldn’t hold on—
I was thinking of you
searched through the muck
kneeling in the creekbed
swishing a stick
disturbing the glass
nothing—nothing—
tangle of rotting leaves