Honey, my earth is merciful. You understand?
I call you mine not as ownership but because
you are a part of me. I pick up pine needles by
the lake, the bright smell coaxing me out of my  
my estrangement w/ life and back into it again.
There are lilypads of ice on the surface so we
throw rocks to gain an advantage—but it’s still
too close, still too new. Leaves aren’t swelling
on the trees and a lone goose feather declines
to weigh in on my basic jealousies w/ the body
it came from, far beyond our sightseeing skills.
When a geode you chucked pauses on the ice
I consider if I’m capable—the responsibility of
being a reliable witness—to move from land

to tributary in a season. Then it shows up as
soft spots crumbling out of the tangy ledges
at our feet, like losing my hair in the shower.
Don’t have enough time to loosen the space
handing out more than I can renew. Water is
brittle and endorses rude dictionaries of what
folks looked like the last time you saw them,
and every year there are odd thunderstorms
in December when the snow should be cooling
out on big summers w/ the longest trespasses.
This particular frost props the top of a lie, but
you’re in another garden now that only looks
like you when the light shifts.