June 1

-for Loren-

The sky opened tonight
to the summons of air
plush with rain like tropical wings,
fluttering and trapped 
near the earth.

Cinnamon and narrow as a tardy boy
slipping into his seat unnoticed
I catch sight of my brother,
drifting spirit
at the edge of white oaks
near the old International.

It is nearly a year 
since he planted his last gardens
at the farm where we all put our hands
in the dirt. Peas, beans, and purple eggplant.
Hot peppers and beets. Clockwork of the season
our parents taught us to love.

That memorial day, even he was unaware,

unprepared to leave the flock's formation,

tidy rows like our mother's

until he crossed the line

he had crossed so many times.

Flummoxed.

Cornered with no way out.

unforgiving--

He changed

his mind

too late.