I remember my hair feeling short
on my shoulders and eating
currants on the train to your village. The
windows filled with the mountains and
trees of your country. I did not
know the trees of your country.
When I woke I was riding through
fields of oats. There were small
houses with vegetable plots. There
were horses. The rails curled and hummed
under the car. A young woman with two
children shared her tea, but we could not speak.
I did not know her words. She pointed and
showed me how she made her children's hats.
They were beautiful.
When I arrived at the station,
you were not there. We later understood
the time charts were not reliable; I
was early. When you arrived, you held my
arm and carried my things. The walk
was short. I was your wife.
Our house was at the bottom of
the road. The kitchen had a
coal stove and I learned the ways
of your country. Your cousin took me
to the market until I knew the way.
You worked. I learned the vegetables
and how to grow them. I cut
the dead wood out of the fruit trees.
This was the life we promised each other.
There was no false.
After two years you took me into
the mountains to teach me the
names of the trees. You said this was
the last thing to learn. We walked, and when
you put your hand on a tree you said
it's name. I followed you and touched
the trees you touched. I said the
names with my breath.
When I knew them all we sat down
and did not speak. We had met.
We had all our words together.
The years have went away.
They are gone. Our house
is at the bottom of the road.
It is a short walk.
I can go no longer
into the mountains. I cannot
touch the names of the trees.
I cannot sit in the place we sat; where
we ruined words.
The world was
tame that day. Now
it pulls at the rope.
It contends the lead.
I am letting go of the
words and the shapes.
