On Walking

This, then: a line tamed

by hand or shears nearly, now,

a year ago. The grief I

felt. And, having returned

to the place to see,

straining, some other

plant, the relief. If uncanny.

To think another might at some

time love it so as I had,

this line of goldenrod,

as I leave. As it has left me.

The difference between the two.