Dispatch From the Outpost

Along this marsh, I have space

to walk and unravel what I want to say.

This is the thinning-down time, month

of thunder and hail and half-finished meals.

Days ago, the wind knocked down the power

lines, arcing sparks that fireworked the sky.

The house went mute, and I was alone

in the silence that lives under the silence

of a one-bedroom home.

Here, the world is all wait and want,

patience, the charm you tied around my wrist.

And this—consider on your return

that every season finds us changed.