Now I walk through time
from gravel driveway
to pistol-shooting range,
back again to the yellow
and red kitchen tile counters,
the reliable faucet
and sink where one night
I poured out all my father’s 
whiskey, and then on to
the cemetery, the one tall tree
beside his brother’s stone, the slope
of stones, our family’s places,
those men who were before him
and had balding heads, white 
lightning, silver teeth, pearl-handled
pistols, and the women, their pillowcases
embroidered with cornflowers,
Papa and Granny up there
at the hill’s top, astonishing
green grass, the sky
bright and wide open.