We laid her on the driftwood pack
and watched its uneven break
sawing against the horizon.
How did you protect her?
The willows woven into the basket were budding.
(I pictured her feet against the ambulance doors
each time they stopped.
I ran through the yard, to wean the hounds
from their mother.)
As we climbed the mountain pass
we lost our switches in the snow,
and the gently arcing trail of a hare,
copied in the pattern of the lace.
We were walking through the snow
to clean the hobbles
which were bent, as if to run.
a needle, glinting from the cross-stitch:
a silo for the grain;
in the cross-stitch, winter scene;
and these are
the stitches left by a golden larch
Ascension Theory, by Christopher Bolin