Jerry stands in the field, 
his arms eagle-wide, his neck arched 
so he can face the sky, 
his hunched back along for the ride. 
He is praying on this side of a life,
May thy will be done, listening 
for an answer, which is always 
the wind sweeping so abruptly
it’s hard to deny the earth hears
every drop of every syllable

Over the ridge of his death, I’m here,
asking, Where have you gone? Even now,
five and a half years, nine years later
as if it just happened. I want to hold him, 
chest to chest, his loud heartbeat in that 
small body ringing through my small body,
then back away and look at him, smiling
because there are no words anymore,
especially now that there is no Jerry.

The field is still the field although now,
it is ours after years of trying to save it, 
something Jerry believed would happen. 
I go into the wet grass, the dry overgrowth,
cold feet or bad headache, lift my arms,
say the words. And the wind? Sometimes 
it answers, bobbing the cedar branches so hard 
one breaks off  or a crow rushes overhead 
with a sprig of green in its happy beak,
its eyes so sharp-edged and alive.