and the crows that circled overhead
still bid me to my Winifred,
from out the city, the boulevard elms:
go north, go north, get off the grid,
go, ford the feeder rivers
although internal, she was animate, provoked,
got so close, in limb, almost proved
sister of my daughter (raven haired
to her wheat)
she was not set in constellation
there is no stone, there is no snow
there is no site for me to go to mourn her
but all of it
the miles and the slanted light
of long weekends,
the great lake, the shouldering falls
coldly thundering
the birch,
hers, all the fauna, all the fir, hers hers,
all the arms, all the sturdy trunks