We carry the trust.
It was not imposed on us,
nor are we heedless.
Sometimes the stillness stands in the woods
and lies on the lake. We move like drowned beings
through clouded waters.
Sometimes we wake to spent leaves
blowing about in the yard. A door bangs.
A woman – vigorous – shakes a rug into the wind.
The red dog shudders and rises and listens.
Uncertain light shines in the grasses.
Wealth sits in inner rooms, staring.
These are our days.