2015 09 18
The last gleam of sun for a hundred days
cracks ice on the frail window of my mind.
I cup my hands to catch its flapping wings
and dream a thousand flowers blooming gold.
Fading sunlight illuminates your words
you scribbled in haste thirteen years ago
in a quick note asking me to buy milk.
I see your gold smile in gray penciled words.
Another brutal winter of cold winds
and silent afternoons by crackling fire
where your knitting waits for you to return
closes around me in fragile wood shell.
Every car that rumbles past our cracked home
flashes vision of the red speeding truck
that crushed your car against a red brick wall.
You smile at me unchanged from your white desk.
The last gleam of sun for a thousand years
stabs my eyes with hope I will see you soon
in lush flower-blooming meadows of heaven,
but I realize that God is dead as you.