Prodigal

A Prodigal  

I’m not forgetting you,

moon, I know

you’re there 
behind the rain

I think night and the flowers

who bloom in her have an agreement,

an aromatic lingering between

doorways only they can taste,

and that our passing

through only means we’ve cleaved

what will come together again

behind us, like driftwood

washing back to shore,

the v of water wide and then not,

closing as though nothing

had floated there at all—as though

it was and then wasn’t, the way

loons, flat as kayaks, are the surface

of the lake and then they are not

and it’s all water again,

or the way two friends,

after a long time apart come

with four arms soon two

in a weave the night air

has been knitting since each

turned away, though today neither

could say just exactly why.