In the winter of separation
there is a raven that watches, that holds
all in its black eye. Sun gathers
where you stood
on the thawed, green patch.
I watch and, with the cold,
am the hard shimmer of ice layering
the apple branches.
Those times under cathedral
eaves, they speak to me
of graves, but they are not dead.
They do not know the feel of earth.
Squirrels a dry rustle through the branches,
falling beneath piano keys, the crushing
black and white of sky. The cold
falls closer and I move to stand
where you were,
feet wet in the melting grass.
Elijah Welter graduated recently from Corban University with a B.S. in Humanities. Currently living near the gray banks of the North Santiam, he finds inspiration in the works of W.S. Merwin, T.S. Eliot, and Gerard Manley Hopkins.
