It is a more lonesome world,

except for when I don't remember he is gone,

a lack of warmth, a cloud in front of the sun,

His son in the right lane then the left, to the turn lane,

riding home with his wife, I wave with my whole heart,

but know they can't see me.

That region of the farm lost to me,

except it isn't at all,

the neighbors lost to me,

except they aren't at all

Last night watching about easter island,

these tall stones carved and sledded

carefully downhill,

propped up, signs carved into their backs,

Gods, the seven navigators,

In warring times,

they'd knock a head over,

Gods again on the land,

watching the sky from their backs

Wherein lies the difference between

mountain and stone and god,

is it that man put his hand to it

and found it out,

i guess not.

but it could be.
all of easter islands stones calling out to be carved,

gods lined up and scattered on one small island,

he said, some claim they spent their resources carving

these gods

spent, wasted

We walked into the woods

made up of beaver carvings, their architecture,

and one two three four five six seven
deer across the field

The light meets us again from heaven

and the honey locust blooms,

Oh he said, it shimmers before it smokes