I saw you fall to the ground.
I saw the oaks fall. The clouds collapsed.
I saw a wildness twist through your limbs
and fly off. The river fell, the grasses fell.
The backs of six drowned cattle
rose to the surface ice—nothing moved.
But a wind touched my ankles when the snow began.
You left that night and we stayed,
our arms braced with weight. What power
there was was over. But I switched on the light
by the porch to see if anything was falling—
and it fell, a few glints in the air,
catching sun although there was no sun,
and the long descent over hours, all night,
seemed like years, and we buried our faces
in what came to rest on the ground
or moved our feet over it, effortless,
as nothing was in our lives, or ever will be.