[media-credit name=”Ken Schwartz” align=”alignright” width=”324″][/media-credit]
With dog and chance I trudge winter matins
in search, and sure, of hearing her council:
such force cannot vanish into ash
or soil. Though we took turns with the shovel,
I set out expectant, lark-a-fledge,
with dog and chance. I trudge winter matins
and take her pace through sleeping village,
sure this way returns me to her love:
such force cannot vanish into ash.
Though I dropped dirt onto her coffin,
her voice sounds in my muscle
when, with dog and chance I trudge winter matins.
And so I find her, as I walk in dark dampness—
as if she too falls from clouds above—
with dog and chance, as I trudge winter matins.
Such force did not vanish into ash.