Keepsake

He writes, it’s pretty green
Here, and sends a picture.

The picture never gets
There. It’s of a garden

In the sun, after rain,
Leaves and blossoms sparkling

Under a pillowy,
Snowy heap of white cloud.

It would contain birdsong
From several species

And the scent of wet grass
And moss near the dense woods,

But it’s just a picture,
Green and bright, one white cloud.

So no one else sees it.
So it rests with the cloud.