The floodlit fountain in the winter pond
lighting the water from underneath
lifts a plume of chill spray into the teeth
of a sleety wind across the trees to the road beyond.

The same road, the same sleet, and the same night
unroll before the wheels of your decrepit car.
The radio is on. You’re content where you are,
with a hand on the wheel, at the edge of my sight.

The lighter flicks to a cupped cigarette under
your face, and the smoke blows out the window vent.
You turn and grin. It makes me wonder
how you could be gone, and where the years went.

The words will come, but words are no good.
You were patient and loyal and good and true.
The heart must go where no words could:
on this side of the veil is no likeness of you.

The ground has been closed now, and there you lie,
breathing the sod from underneath,
while above you grass blades bend in the teeth
of a chill wind, with a few flakes flickering by.

The ground has been closed; the world waits for the sun.
Some have tomorrows. Some must wake
and roll away the stone. It is for their sake
the verses continue, the song not quite done.

February 28, 2006

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