–    for R, in memory

You think you have the sun
captured in your hand
but it’s not the sun
it’s not even your hand
it’s a small animal bedded in wood scraps
it’s a vase of cut flowers, waiting
it’s the long shade of an arborway

images reverberate in opposing mirrors
dreams vivify the dead
and you wake to absence

Tears are funny that way
drawn from the well
of sorrows’ past
as if new sorrow needs to find its
wobbly way, a fawn’s first steps
watched by the recovering doe

the sea calls to you
sleeper waves want you to return
to the deep cold of beginnings

how many waves must loll and break
how does the death of one person
in all the billions of earth’s history
sweep wide an emptiness
where no emptiness had lived before

for a while
the blushing color of
fallen rose petals holds
a gentle scent

tears are funny that way.