Not the swallow diving or the sea

washing again the brown shore.

Not cloud or clover, doe

at the edge of the road. But the mountain,

maple there, the oak branch cracking

against another as it falls.

Not the carpet, the floor’s own lover, not the bed

or books showing off their spines.

Not Friday, trash day, mail between eleven and four.

Yes, onions chopped and frying, salt

licking them clear. Yes, her breath, the garlic

and the marked night upon the yard.

Not the dust body of the moth

giving itself to the wall. Not grandmother,

or dear friend’s father, gone with his antique gun.

Not Lennon or long-melting snow.

Not the house sold to strangers, not any

of those but the ground

and its stone-white stone.