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I miss them with an ache I can’t describe:
the hills, the rolling roads, echoing hollers;
the old man driving cows from the farm side
to hillside of the road at early hours;

Old Harold, up the road, who took his walks
mid-afternoon, and waved when I came home;
the sunsets on the hill behind the house,
the cherry trees, the creek that overflowed

the bridge at times, and washed it all away.
And since I’ve moved, it seems the river time
is eroding the banks of memory
and taking all that I’d considered mine.

I can’t describe how their loss makes me feel.
I list them, calling them back to the real.