Valley sky. Like a steel sword, silver.
Valley floor. Like a tilled field, rich soil.
Valley man. I haunt the creeks and woods.
Valley poems. Words growing like corn.
And I am here for the harvest.
“Who were you?” —I ask the younger me.
“You, but not completely,” he says.
I didn’t want to look at him anymore, you know.
I didn’t want to hear his words, as foolish
As I already knew him to be.
Late afternoon. Dust mites
Were floating in the softly sunlit room.