In the Grove

when the music was over, we danced in the echoes of the last cello,

painting a new vision into the sky,

a world where a cypress grove is better

than an interstate runway

(As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever will be.)

Treasure these river trees where the bass and hawks have conversations

the dry land can’t bear.

The weight of these things we speak into existence

need air and water to wash away the muddiness

of the everyday doldrums and mechanics of living.

We’ll never see Paris together, but there will never be a night too deep—

we have our own light: silver, blue, and gold

eternally lighting our path

to the grove outside the garden.