The veil thins;
I light a candle and wait
for you to come home.

beneath the rowan
a red kite
broken

Cicadas gather on the grapevine,
a mass of wings and vibrating abdomens.
Males call out to females
but it is the grey squirrels who answer,
chattering loudly as they feast on insect flesh.

I sip cold wine and tap my fingers
on thin glass, watching and waiting.
My phone buzzes next to me;
you, calling, again.
I ignore it and turn my gaze back to the feast.

At first light, I turn my head
towards an open window
and listen to the dove’s lament.
I know his pain. I know his cry.

He weeps in such a way
that makes me wish
I could answer,
but only God or another dove
can heed that call.

I turn my head away from the window,
pull warm covers back over my ears
and wait for him to fly away.

I can hear the fir trees cracking and breaking
in the night, their tired limbs laden
with ice and the weight of a new year.

I know that if I look out the window I will see
needles scattered over frozen ground
like lost little children,

like me.

Daydreams drift into vivid memories,
shadowed thoughts of "remember when"
grow bright with a gasp
as I dip my feet into the icy river.

The new road used to be old riverfront
and the only travelers were ducks and geese.
We skipped school and skipped rocks,
chased each other with lightsabers
made of twigs and fishing twine.

I flex wrinkled toes and dig further
into the cold sand, feel the pulse
of the river mingle with my own.
A toy boat flounders on the shore,

its torn sail flapping in the breeze.
I rescue it from the rocks,
patch it up with twig and twine
and set it free.