by Heather Carnaghan
I whispered your name to the same trees
that already knew it well.
They wept acorn tears
and clung to their last leaves
defiantly remembering the spring
as I angrily failed to find the words
that could conjure the sound of your last heartbeat.
I told each squirrel to relay my love
should they find you in the wood.
One stared curiously at me
and, for one lingering moment,
we shared the thought of you.
I released a stone inked with “two months”
onto the undisturbed silt
below the surface of the lake.
It’s tiny engraved fox
will soon be covered with ice
and, like your hiccups,
only I will ever know it was there.