The Shape of the Light
At the pass,
the kettle blackened on the stone
You folded my letter
and carried it home
Dust in the rifle sling,
frost in the canteen
A photograph slept
where the cartridge had been
Mother, don’t wait by the gate
tonight The mountain keeps changing the
shape of the light If I
come back quiet,
don’t ask me why There are
roads in my hands that refuse
to lie,
to lie
We counted the engines
below the ravine
Then shared one orange
beneath a machine
Your boot had a tear
and your sleeve had a stain
You joked about spring,
though it sounded like rain
Mother, don’t wait by the gate
tonight The mountain keeps changing the
shape of the light If I
come back quiet,
don’t ask me why There are
roads in my hands that refuse
to lie,
to lie
A red scarf caught on the
wire in the wind
A name on the roll that
was never crossed in
The radio crackled,
then gave us the time
And someone began an old song
out of line
By dawn,
every window was powdered with sand
The map lost a border
beneath my left hand
I promised the valley
I’d learn to forgive
But the valley said nothing—it only
let live
Mother, don’t wait by the gate
tonight The mountain keeps changing the
shape of the light If I
come back quiet,
don’t ask me why There are
roads in my hands that refuse
to lie,
to lie
To lie
At the pass,
the kettle cools on the stone
I fold your old letter
and carry it home