Gone

by Elizabeth Cunningham

Yesterday afternoon I sat
on a flat stone fallen free
from an old wall
at the top of a steep hill
the top of a grove of oaks
still wintry in bareness
while lower down
green thrusts and creeps
in the thin light.

I felt the moisture gathering mass
getting ready to become today's rain.
My gaze washed down hill
the way water would
finding the channels
filling the valley.
Some idea came, some words
a poem, I thought, a poem
Later I'll write it down.

Now the thought that formed is
gone is mist on my skin is
rain soaked into the ground.
May it nourish the trees at their root
may it swell at their tips in bud.