North

The glaciers retreat.
Skeletons beneath, ground to dust bloom.
The impossible seed, the mosses
who wouldn’t die
bloom.

A word echoes in the calving frenzy.
The sounds we know,
if not the cadence.
If we could understand,
what would we know?

Those who spoke died, and those who listened.
From their bubbling organs
a new and better tune:
A mist that rises and
continues to rise.

We who listen will die.
The palm trees marching north will
swallow our bodies.

For now, I stand on the corner of this and that,
listening.
I hear everything and know nothing,
or I hear nothing and still I know nothing.
I am a short spool run out of thread
too soon.