I don’t recognize you anymore:
you bananas, you eggplants,
you beets.
I dropped you off a year ago,
covered you
with sycamore leaves.
I didn’t think you’d
leave so completely.
Here there is only
earth, fresh as a
mountain stream,
plush as mineral dust.
Sometimes I find
one of your belongings:
“Sunkist #4013” or
“Product of Holland.”
I guess you didn’t need those
where you were going.
