To the fan in the barn, its blades turning air
To the bristle on each brush
To dog whistles hanging from a nail
To the cat crouched in quiet
And stalls bearing buckets of water
To bamboo in the grove, supplicants of snow
And boxwood veiled in cobwebs
To the groove in the saltlick
To pastures where horses stood hock-high in spring melt
No icepack in Virginia keeps the past
Nothing lasts