spring, a mourning dove
cooing, wooing with the sun
still up, still gilding the backyard
of my grandparent's home in gold.
fifty-eight years married to
the same walls, the same roof,
that small square of garden
freshly tilled.
standing in the middle
of the yard drinking a beer
alone, eyes closed and i can feel
the old sail boat behind the garage,
can sense the chipped blue paint on its hull,
the flat tires of its trailer,
the patch of earth where we buried
my first dog, where the grass never
came back.
the wind rustles a sheet hung out
on the clothesline, then whips the fabric
suddenly. i open my eyes, tense
until i hear the voices in the house
behind me.
a turn to go back, a pause,
the dove again, the boat,
the sun pushing against the wind
and everything precious, gold
in the light and the cold
night coming, the cold
night breathing, old
night smiling, cold,
cold, i can't stop.
