the box
in Eli's irregular scrawl, bearing the word "Railroad"
but the contents are not mechanical,
nor ever fixable

born into the night
by gentle hands, hands holding
hopes and sightless memories,
an allotment of time that came and went

our flashlight seems feeble
in contrast to nature, whose collection of
stars cling to the tangle of trees above,
painfully pristine

the saplings yield to us,
to the dead weights that are the box
and our hearts

there is a tender placement,
reacquaintance with the red earth
and then there is nothing

all the night guiltily hushed,
resounding in a tangible emptiness
that swells and makes itself known within us

and all we can do is stand there,
immobilized by love

at our feet,
a little yellow cat among the daffodils.