the door that could have opened; all the green;
the window on the second floor; the scene
below of fields and forests; how I look
from sky, to room, to pages of my book,
wanting an answer to the boundless quest
and finding only woe, another test;
the seasons’ turning picture book; the rain,
the way it washes making mud; the stain
you left me with; the days and weeks that pass
uncertain of their calendar; the mass
of breath and movement in this cloudy air;
the roof you made for me; the way you care
even beyond my reach, in how you bloom
this spring in memory, despite your tomb.