a forge, and a scythe

by raymond carver, from where water comes together with other water

one minute i had the windows open
and the sun was out. warm breezes
blew through the room.
(i remarked on this in a letter.)
then, while i watched, it grew dark.
the water began whitecapping.
all the sport-fishing boats turned
and headed in, a little fleet.
those wind-chimes on the porch
blew down. the tops of our trees shook.
the stove pipe squeaked and rattled
around in its moorings.
i said, "a forge, and a scythe."
i talk to myself like this.
saying the names of things -
capstan, hawser, loam, leaf, furnace.
your face, your mouth, your shoulder
inconceivable to to me now!
where did they go? it's like
i dreamed them. the stones we brought
home from the beach lie face up
on the windowsill, cooling.
come home. do you hear?
my lungs are thick with the smoke
of your absence.