Bloomsday in the Bogs

Year 23. 

Bloomsday In The Bogs

I search for your name in the clouds when all this time 

I should have returned to the bogs. To the cranberry bog 

where they rope the ripe berries into a red, pond-wide heart.

To the summer bog on Nantucket where I could have spread

your ashes in the Atlantic, on the North Shore: Quidnet Beach.

I could search for a bog here

 –the aiguamolls–

where I could later join you.

Around the bog thick poplars whisper and shake: a leafy hug.

Over the bog rises a silver mist: heat carrying away winter’s tears.

On the bog dragonflies hover and dip: listening.

In the bog science proceeds: time rethinks morning, math, eternity.

Under the bog the world wonders how it will all end.

Beyond the bog you wait for me: since the beginning.