—for Carol Rice

Some days might require a remedy—
the memory of a field so lush
you could sail across it,

and in the distance, the backs
of horses, noses dipped
in bluegrass, steam

rising off their bodies like ghosts
of family, and always a breeze
flowing across the porch

so full of Tchaikovsky you could almost
pour it into a glass. Sip this
moment. Take a deep breath.

All time is precious. It carries
hope, even when it must
drag it uphill, and into

headwind. Accept this salve knowing
there’s nothing out of sort
that can’t be put back in.