I don't say your name anymore.
If at sunbreak I'm walking a road
Where ohia trees rise out of pasture grass-
So one themselves they cannot turn
When wind strikes their ashy branches-
After a night rain has made shine
Bundles of baling wire and the fine spider lines between them,
And the stripped wood of longs for fencing;
When everything on the ranch brightens with water-
Stone, and the lichen on it, big hunks of lava,
The tanks, the pipes, the benches, the house, the outbuildings-
Everything all at once with water, I shiver,
The sun breaks,
But I do not turn.
I don't even say your name.