Poet auntie has made an art of losing
And leafing through we have lost her.
What great artists we were, what joy.
Like her we lose an entire continent
And we drift away in a tectonic shift
And we have a cold mountain risen.
We keep losing our mothers to trees
Like bird chicks lose theirs to skies,
Feathers to strange new landscapes.
What great losers we were, what art.
In a final losing we would not know
What consummate artists we were.