All these things

(x)

Sun overhead,
you pointed
to the wind-tossed grasses.
This is a memory now.
 
(xi)

Together in that first sun,
so vivid:
there must be a pattern

I’d hung my life on.

 (xii)

Snow dropped in clusters,
staggered & jagged.

We don’t matter a bit.
 
(xiii)

Reflected in lake water:
all these things I’ll forget.

Nate Pritts, "& then afterward"