I waited, seated behind the arched letters of the cafe window,
riveted by others who moved urgently, soundlessly, beyond
the thick glass, scurrying along glistening sidewalks,
winding between glaring headlamps in the slick night

to lovers, to friends, to family, to home.
I remember no words, only the sting of hot coffee,
a hurried gulp to stanch the welling pain and to quiet
the certain quiver of my voice if left to speak.

Yet once into the dampness, standing together for a last time
in the crystalline night, the balance is seared into hard memory
as I watched you lift a speck from my collar,
grooming me, as before, and then a smile, wistful,

and you rose on tiptoes to brush a wisp of hair from
my brow and silently, hood now raised in the misting
dark, you found the sharp corner of the red brick
building and vanished.

before he left his father's house for the last time,
he went to the kitchen where gray winter light
filled the room through a single window

he leaned over the table and smoothed his fingertips
along the wood, attempting to ****** from the soft,
sentimental pine all of the names, the numbers, that

had graced its' face, those who had drawn his
father's attention, if only for the moment, and for
a while he searched for his own name until suddenly

he withdrew his hand as if scorched, realizing some
things are better left unknown

Ten years, my tears, and his last breaths.

Wrapped in a white sheet, I carry him outside.

Later, my pick and shovel in hand.

It's hot, and the backyard weeds are tough to pull from the high ground.

The sky is iridescent blue. I wish it would rain

I swing the pick and hit dry ground.

The gray slate slab, the black painted letters poke above the tall grass.

I run my hand along the stone and whisper words only he and I can hear.

I wish it would rain.

so exciting, so fascinating, so
wholly fulfilling, so viscerally
gratifying to

think, to think deeply, to ponder
the delicate prism of our reality
and its' infinite possibilities

that one is left

giddy

in the park, the homeless stamp their feet in the cold

as the snow drifts down through the city

onto leafless trees, painting winter branches

white and still and voiceless

like the scent of crisp linens

from morning's first conscious breath,

she is life awakened

thoughts of tinsel and garland and stolen kisses under
mistletoe, of snow-covered walks, the prismed flakes
gathered garishly to glisten under the evening lamplight

of friends and family bearing cakes and drinks,
of hearty hugs and Santa hats, and toothy grins and silly
smiles of neighbors happily in their cups

the many pages since fallen from the calendar,
all shadows now, etched in their loveliest,
flawless in mind’s eye