This night's hand stretches
across the purpled green-
a finger pointedat the hills. We say
"we understand, we see"
when there is nothing.
The shadow of
nothing-an errant arrow,
a poisoned owl, the jagged
flight of moths
makes its way back
to our misted window.
A child might say-
"see how clouds
resemble horses?"
Or an old man
pray to the face
of his absent lover...
a young man inhale
the skin of roses
in his private dreams.
What creature fliesor walks a straight line?Who returns
from the long journey
with an unspent spine?
Even the proud willow
bows over the lake
when the evening comes. 
from the long journey
with an unspent spine?"
Rachel
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