In your face exists a landscape
seen from a window every day,
seen through porch columns,
or when crossing the bridge.
The same white-skinned birches,
same mountains beyond,
so utterly different each time. The river always
reflecting skyward, clouds parting eyes, dazzling,
even when the water below is gunmetal grey.
Still places I’ve never seen before.
When you smile, the edges of your lips are roads
that lead off, around the bend, I hadn’t
noticed, and wonder if I left the map somewhere.
Occasional working trucks sometimes pass, and
on particularly dry days, are attended by clouds of dust hurrying after.
What memory has recorded this terrain?
Nothing is found that hasn’t been lost first.