Have You Seen My Daughter?

She’s glad this day the birds are gone away
With songs that are no longer songs in fields
That are no longer farms. Without the one,
The young whose hand held hers up hills of green
To rest, to roll, to find the clement end
In earth now scorched and scorned by spite, by grief.
Sky clear, severe—the blue above the brown.

Published in The Traveler’s Vade Mecum