There is grass . . .

. . . where I once made the angels in the snow, one for me and one for you. The snow held our twin forms until the sun dissolved their lines and new snow filled the places my body had carved out.

This evening I look at the grass and see what is no longer there. And I wonder if I lie down will I be able to fit myself within the past's invisible lines? It would be one way of going back.

This kind of sorrow . . .

. . . resides deep below the earth where no water runs.

Maybe I should plead for an earthquake.