By Lisa Olstein
Someone I love has died. I am certain, but I cannot
tell who.
A bird that sounds like a cuckoo calls the hours like an old
clock, only not the hours we mean.
I think I see into each
day, but it is every thing in its turn reflecting the sky, tossing
back what it is shown. Through the window, an owl
announces tonight’s neatly wrapped package of bone and
fur. There is no rope swing unraveling in the moonlight. You
cannot hope backwards or in reverse.
