To M

M, you haven’t laughed in three months. Always you walk home Quiet, your black backpack slung over a shoulder, shut the door Before retiring to your room. I read a story, once, about two kids Who found their way to the underworld. One of them cried And the other sneezed. At the noise, the crier laughed. The sound Of the laugh, utterly foreign, something between a bell and a howl, Made the river of fire that ran through Hell recoil in fear. I think, M, These days about what it means to be green. To resist withering and, Sometimes, even appraise time. Not in coins or checks but rather In some measure of faith that works for us. M, you loved philosophy Before it broke you. I sit with the texts you abandoned In my room, reading through titles on contracts and governance And the problem of redemption. What does it mean to live For someone else? No matter your resistance, it is true: I am living For you. Until you can be well again. When I watch a tree shake I remember your face. A kite soars overhead and I wonder what New commitment you are running towards. You wanted to know Everything. When you failed, you despaired. But there must Be merit, M, to not swallowing every fact. The wind blows Through boughs, entire forests—I am thinking of you as The air grows young. The best time to begin is in the past.