Though she could just as easily have meant
the bridge they have been building,
placing word over word,
fastening phrases and clauses
together.
From this distance
the bridge stands out against the landscape,
trees and slow rising skies
disappearing into endlessness,
birds drifting through, dipping here and there like disparately immutable memories,
calling them—the trestle, cream clouded coffees, the pond, the silver backs of geese
resting on the banks, the trails of bread crumbs . . .
did they not toss them there together?
Sometimes, while they are working,
those heavy sounds of hammering the
past perfect in to the present,
the whistling of drills drifting across the horizon
feel likethe very soil beneath their feet.
Every so often they checkto see if it is true,
lifting each foot carefully, one at a time,
eyeing the solesof their shoes,
testing the ground where they stand
to see if it will hold,that this may work as proof
of the strength of their efforts,
the future still resting in the shallow road bed
and taking shape
between them.
