Before Leaving
he meant to do something in the minutes
before he would go. He might have carried
a shovel or rake, his hard, splintered skin
curled to smooth handle, but he stopped before
the gate, stood there, seemed to lose himself in
gazing out where a sorrel horse ambled
through light, trees shimmered in wind. He forgot
his purpose, or felt it falter, go out,
stranding him in between, and maybe this
was why he’d come back, without knowing it,
to let himself be filled with what he saw
while he still could. It was all already
leaving, going on without him—