One road ends with a white cross,
standing nameless at the cliff’s edge.
While you look out over the forest
I kneel to study a cluster of penstemon.
Fuchsia bells bright against a cloudy sky.
How do I break the silence?
Two nights ago I dreamed of you dead,
and when I woke I wanted to shake you,
tell you about my uncle
throwing himself into the river,
ask you what lies you were told as a child,
who you miss when a certain song
makes you turn away from me.
Whatever grief you hold
you hold tight, like these mottled stems
clutching their blossoms against the wind.
In the dream, it was days before anyone
thought to tell me you were gone.