Under a milky, Celtic moon and below

A blanket of creosote black, like a sheet of glistening tar

and there, beneath the willow, you will find you are buried with the dirt and aged sorrow,

Part clay, rock and roots reaching for the water

Within a stones throw from the canopy.

They say the dreams of those before us are buried there, too,

Outside of our comprehension and our capabilities.

There are ways, gritty realism, poetic detachment, understated suggestion, but I haven’t found mine.

My way, that is, of saying “here you are”.

I’ll be ok, as well, if that notion never finds the river. If the pinnate glow from the imagined heavens, against its obstacle, nevere lays

Upon the limbs or the leaves.