The Plaque

says “Nothing Happened on This Spot
in 1832.” In 1832, this spot

was maple, ash, and jagged stone—
some morrels, maybe chanterelles, a spot 

of dill and purple cosmos introduced by passing feet.
Whoever crossed here might have spotted 

thirsty herds of fallow deer or gathered
dovetail arrowheads. It was on a spot

like this I followed father through
his fields, searching for the perfect spot 

where we would dig to China. With spade
I worked beside him when three spots 

of red became the sky. I woke up burning
in my bed, his hand cold upon my brow, a spot 

of moonlight slanting in. Father, did we get to China?
No,he whispered, Nothing happened. On that spot

he built a well. I knew then I must dig without him—
a little deeper every time, and always in a different spot.  

[from Meditation Archipelago, Tiger Bark Press 2018]