That we shall not forget to honour
brown, its reedy clarities.

And, though the earth is dying
and the names of its diseases
spread from the fencelines, Latinate:
a bright field
ribboned with swath.

That the mind’s light could be filtered
as: a porch, late afternoon,
a trellised rose,
                            which is to say
a truth in nostalgia:
if we steel ourselves against regret
we will not grow more graceful,
but less.

That a letter might honestly
begin, Dear beloved.