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It should be shelved in the absolute
library of amazement:

an encyclopedia in twelve volumes,
with a whole page
on the darkness of the soaked earth
in its bare patch by the door,
a section to the hanging leaf
with its coating of moisture,
one drop gathering down at the tip.

Another to the broken arms of branches,
the way the raw wood inside,
exposed, is already
starting to weather.

One volume to sounds of the air,
for where are they now, the sheets of wind,
blasts of thunder, awful silence of lightning?

Another to sounds of the earth,
the many tappings and batterings of rain,
the unlatched gate slapping the fence.

An appendix addressing the emotions themselves:
dread of imminent grief, the grief itself.

This poem appeared in the December 31, 2012 issue of the magazine.