Assume a fruit stone
to stand for the massive absence
between the shore of the Housatonic
and this kitchen window.
There's a haunting red garage door
around the corner, lit by night light.
Between there and here,
a demolished house and a razed school,
emptied to its spirits:
those seeds, the innumerable futures
that are now spaces.
Come September, we'll ask,
"Did we go swimming,
and finish the iced tea?
"Did we find fire flies
thick among green cherry leaves
wrapping the edge of the garden
as the night air wrapped our bare arms?"