The man with something to say forgot
no turn would be given to give
his varying testimony.
He was put in a frame and hung
silent about his unfolded history
stuck in the spring.
When sick a man is sandstone
people walk on his surface
he wears away.
When lively luster returns to him
the gems he found on solo hikes
emerge from hiding.
The longer he sat traveling the world
the stronger grew his native color
green of craving.
Like bamboo shoots and maple
leaves with afternoon behind them
green of enough.
After living in the same house so long
he didn’t need to live anywhere
so he left.
Did I know him well? As well
as he knew me, all but