The children marvel at it and the adults are proud of it.

The only tall trees are on islands. Autumn
fires keep the land clear—The river
suddenly went slippery and jade. On its banks

As a kid I never thought of “pain” as
  something I felt. What I felt I could not
name or share. Now out the window I watch

Up in the mountains, deep gorges had split the rock into sharp knives. A whole civilization lived up there, where the sky was so blue it seemed to exist in depth for ever. Their cities (and I was never able to discover if, in fact, they had any) could not be seen. 

White’s designed to fake an edifice,
but the matted crenellation of reed-thatch
throws it to the side. A squadron of crows
clarifies the rhythm, carries the eye through

A large room, with an upright harpsichord in one corner. A young lady was playing the instrument, whose face was heavily carved with cherubs and fruit. The young lady played a series of English folksongs and then slipped into Bach’s Passacagliain C minor.

There we were promised a great, great life
   and it waited, though we weren't yet born.
There at the window, returned from having lived,

A watch. An old one used to hanging from the black silver satin pocket of a grandfather, swinging when he walked.

All day I have written words:
My subject has been that. Words. 
And I am wrong. And the words.

  A daffodil from Emily’s lot
I lay beside her headstone
on the first day of May.