Ashokan Farewell

By the third note,
it’s a whine — the slide
up to D like the creak
of the old front door or the oven
I opened with a dishcloth, slow.
All the openings: the back yard
onto the creek, a song
trying to match the wind, hilltops
speaking no human name,
the shed up the rise with birch
piled under the eaves, black scent
of motor oil. Winter
beat us senseless, pushed us
into a warm corner of the bed,
bow and fingers dragged with mute
and slur, then sometimes bright —
yes, that’s right, there are other
ways to remember this:
Yes, some mornings sang
like coffee poured in hungry cups.

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