BANDERA CREEK
He stands in the shifting, spotted shade
of Cypress trees, who’s hard roots run
like the fingers of old men
through Bandera Creek.
Leaving the east, his sadness thinned out
until each regret recalled the last,
like a small house in yellow grass
he drove by half an hour ago.
Today, a woman he will never see again
thinks of him as she crosses Broadway
and enters a building with no name.
He stands by Bandera Creek, in dry country.
Patient, slow roads have gathered him
to the shifting Cypress shade
where he stands in silence
that started to gather the day he was born.