Letters to Maria IV

Maria,

I have been thinking of that big cedar in the neighbor’s yard.
The enormous one, bigger than their house.

Even in the summer, sky ablaze,
that monster would stretch out and take the sun like a sacrament —
three houses down we could lie there in half darkness
(the better to frame your devilish smile
and the sinful acts to which we were compelled).

Last month there was a storm.
When it was over the cedar still stood,
though not a week later men came and chipped it down anyway.
Imagine! Nothing left of that giant but pieces you could cradle in your hand,
and a stump the land wears like a scar
(soon, I fear, also to be erased).
In a week’s time a truck will pull away
and the men will go home from another day of toil.
They will flush the blackness from their noses
and there will be nothing left but memories.

The world changes quickly,
and I am afraid that you do the same, away from my gaze.
I look out the window now and see nothing but shapeless clouds
and, at night, stars that mean nothing to me.
Please write.

- B.

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