The twin gnarled junipers in front of this house
do not know her face, or the sound of her step.
The inarticulate geese never flew over her head.

She’s hardly seen anything—leaf, feather, or bone.
How the equations of brick and mortar
can come together peaceably to form a house. Some houses.

She’s like a snail, inviolable and unaware. Happy.
How I miss her, even when I hate her, that girl
I used to know, or be—the one who could float.

What she would see now in the mirror—herself,
mute and astonished, swaying like water. Me.
Pick up a net instead, and toss it. Or tap into her, like a tree.