The bay window opens to the north.
It’s foggy out. I grab the gray, knitted
sweater you bought my last birthday.
The dead pull us apart so easily
as if we’re the ones wrapped in tight string,
transmuted into nothing in the dark.
I never used to believe in dying. No need
when an afterlife awaits, a resurrection
suspended in clouds and dust.
Death, then, becomes a cold marathon,
maybe a sprint, but something
with end. Something measured
between existing and existing again,
moon to next moon. Sleep and light.
Your daughter picked up your ashes
today, and as our fingertips touched
I was reminded again how I didn’t call
enough before our last words
diminished to smoke that always tastes
of home, doesn’t it, wood stove burning
evening timber. I wasn’t lying
about the bay window, curtains drawn
and tied back, staying put, can’t help if
smoke plumes escape to the trees.