Though your shadow carries names
its scent is falling off, luring piece by piece
the stone it needs for nourishment
 
–you hoodwink these dead, stand here
the way each hillside reaches out
with the wooden carts that go on wobbling
 
as if they once had wheels, circled slowly down
smelling from fresh cut lumber and warm soup
–it works! Your shadow has always found room
 
for you, for the creaking inside these low trees
that grow only a darkness not yet the bloom
by itself giving back so many years later.