The impossible is never really there
only the shadow of the shadow
in the way you would ask me things
and then believe what I would say,
the moon is purposeful and green
on Leap Years and religious holidays,
the eyes of the bear can see through
trees, their brown is the color
of hardwood, the minute you believe
something is gone, it returns to you.
I set the things out in the yard
for your inspection. The jar for bees.
The net made of clothes hangers
and old silk dungerees. The names
of those who have left us never
to return. But then that was it,
the museum of the backyard,
and all other things we cling to
in each other remain. It’s not
impossible to believe anything you
see, nothing stays invisible forever.