Elegy of a Porch

The white tree

Hung down over the churchyard

The churchyard was the porch

The white was from the snow

The grave was the circle

From where the umbrella had been.

I was ten.

I missed the summer, when life was green.

When sun streaked the back of my hands

When my eyes

Were light like the sun

When I was bright like the sun

And splinters dug into my soft feet

From the churchyard

The churchyard that was the porch,

The border between breathing

And living–

The graves, covered in chalk.