One year and now one day

have come and gone. So long,
so short, the way we count
what stays, what goes. Winter
has come again. The snow
falls heavy and slow and wind
rattles in barren limbs as I walk
these hills alone. Just here
she lies, without a stone,
in this place no one could know.
Mother, I remember, and gather
the years, so long, so short.

The years so fast, so slow.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 9 Number 1, on page 53
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