Of Possibility

There must be a trace
of blood, red
now on this blanket this quilt
this cover.

There must be
something of you
left here.

Inside this
death this leaving
this disappearance
into some other
vaporous form.  I

am looking now
for something left
behind or something
forgotten or something
unsaid or untried.

I am looking for the rings of the tree
to count each year.
One ring more.
And after that
each year another
& another.

Some years have gone
toward drought and some
have gone toward
flood.  But each
ring tells me what
has come

& what will now
survive.  As each
ring presses out
into this bark of skin, this
parapet of possibility
& morning air.