To Cristin, Whom the Cancer Took

I suppose corn still grows in Iowa,
tall and green as August looms.

And I suppose cottonwoods still form
a haze along the banks of shallow creeks.

I still see you beside Island rivers
on summer mornings. A mist rises.

And when the setting sun and the full moon
balance across the earth I hear you laugh.

Though I often think of you in the night
I feel guilt that you never walk in my dreams.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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