A morning will come for mourning you

but let me tell about today,

the day after we carried your casket:

a day of good rain, slow and steady,

a rain for reading old rhymes


Migrating mallards float

on wetland pools,

mates bent so deep in water

all I can see is their rumps

wagging at a changeable sky


Tulips burn candle red

reminding me of your flower beds,

begonia, iris, daffodils,

how you became a flower among flowers,

your hair a rose white


This morning I’m playing Vivaldi

on the stereo, resolving to be more kind:

I had forgotten the boy I was,

a descendant of farmers, the son

you breastfed on Terrace Street


I’d forgotten how you read to me

on a sofa during thunderstorms, how you

knelt for a kiss and cried when I stood

at the door with a pillow case of treasures

on a hobo stick from our magic tree