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.