Eternity is the problem

The way the Bay stretches before me 

when I step 

      over the yellow hill of Oyster park—all filmy lilac—

and a necklace of sparkling jewels

      light the San Mateo bridge—

my heart trips—a soft bobbing 

      against my ribs, legs turn to silk.

My arms swing wide out to the side

       as if I might alight.  

So drugged am I by the great expanse and 

      strong evening breeze, 

and the sky ablaze as if heralding 

      a great triumph, a great gratitude.

Forgotten is this morning‘s walk 

     as the widow,

teary on a muddy trail 

      between a steep hill and a waterless creek

who stops beside a brown leaf dangling 

      rag-like beside the fresh green newborns,

who follows the deer tracks 

      to the edge of the lake,

who waits for a breeze to nudge her 

     to the next moment and

cries because crying 

      gives her something to do 

about this thing 

      that nothing can be done about. 

It’s eternity— eternity is the problem.  

      It falls out from under you 

like a sink hole.

My man who loved me with a 

       mother's patience is no more. 

His green eyes far from light.

       His comb, wool socks--

      

the closet full of things 

      that outlive him. 

 Death is a crime. 

       If you are alive and glad to be alive, 

 death is theft, a mean assault. 

And if you have no faith, there's no appeal. 

       No one rises from the grave. 

But he is dead, my dearest, we've been 

      disconnected by every measure.

A box of bone bits centered on the table, 

      the one he passed every day for years— 

now his altar. 

So while he is nowhere, detached from me,
      in measureless space,

I prepare for the rain that's forecast, 

       plant the bulbs he meant to plant, 

make his dog stop sniffing his shoes.