We should have put you in your hunting coat <br />Beneath its abstract whorls of pheasant blood. <br />I think that might have kept you less remote <br />From cattails and the smell of river mud. <br /> <br />I held you last beneath a locust tree <br />Where limbs writhed in a passion of leaf fall <br />Your moon-burned body fitted close to me, <br />But grief is not original at all. <br /> <br />Though you shall come to summer with no words, <br />And my arms hold the empptiness of air, <br />The slate-gray sky will keep its flow of birds; <br />Sun unto moon forgetting we were there.<br /><br />Sandra Fowler<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/summer-with-no-words/
