For Ernesto Trejo

Plum, almond, cherry have come and gone
the wisteria has vanished in
the dawn, the blackened roses rusting
along the barbed-wire fence explain

how April passed so quickly into
this hard wind that waited in the west.
Ahead is summer and the full sun
riding at ease above the stunned town

no longer yours. Brother, you are gone,
that which was earth gone back to earth,
that which was human scattered like rain
into the darkened wild eyes of herbs

that see it all, into the valley oak
that will not sing, that will not even talk.