How the Past Comes Back
Like shadow across a stone,
gradually–
the name it darkens;
as one enters the world
through language–
like a child learning to speak
then naming
everything; as flower,
the neglected hydrangea
endlessly blossoming–
year after year
each bloom a blue refrain; as
the syllables of birdcall
coalescing in the trees,
repeating
a single word:
forgets;
as the dead bird’s bright signature–
days after you buried it–
a single red feather
on the window glass
in the middle of your reflection.
Natasha Trethewey