And so we must see these things,

As we casually sit and talk—

Bowties and butterflies—

Chrysanthemums and children.

In a garden behind a door not opened

Except so little wide to peek outside and seek—

Look! The flower seeds on the rock-hard ground in need.

The dark gray clouds of nevermore ignore and pass on by.

There is a flagstone path—

A garden passageway—

Perhaps we walked along together yesterday.

Remember?

The trees and grass were shining in the merry sunlight,

Singing for no other reason than for being in the garden

At the same time we were walking along together?

There were flowers there and we picked them for your hair.

And now—

Now we are behind the door peeking out to where we were before.

The garden, dark and barren, a memory of singing trees.

Where before there was a path we walked and talked along

A wall has grown—its bricks and mortar sown by hapless hands.

Huron says little to me now

Two years after your death.

July, and it remains shipwreck cold

heat turns the beach from sand to ashes.

I wade out and into her—

the clarity stuns me

immersed

until my body is

as your body was

once your soul exhaled,

cold as the bones of Shackleford’s men

cast away from the Endurance.

How did you endure?

The route of your path so different from mine

I grief shriek to burst the surface

And emerge thawed by finding hope

And comfort in time.

That stranger on the shore

knows nothing of it

mouth gaping stare

lotion in mid drip

just some fun on the fourth.