Nobody here

He not only lived here 

inside this house, 

he was this house, 

in fact remains here even now

inside this house. 

When I enter, I enter him.

I feel the air move in all directions, 

I feel him fill the space like light 

when I flick the switch. 

He is not sad or angry 

though his body curled up

like burning paper, 

right here inside this house.  

That night I felt his soul pause 

and then slip into these walls 

as if into the folds of a thick drape.

He did not rush away from this 

weak animal life 

but when I speak to him

there's no answer--he cannot answer, 

how could he without tongue and throat?

The murmurs of wind through windows, 

through cracks in these walls, they soothe me, 

sometimes fool me but they are not him, 

he lives in a world of thoughts

and thoughts are soundless.

You might say such silence means 

nobody's here. 

But I feel him as I feel myself 

within and around 

this house 

The pilot

I didn't see it then

but see it now

how hard for you it must have been

my navigation through the years

took us further

than you planned

but sweet you were

to go along

you didn't fail to try

 to give me peace

though I had none,

my nature interfering

and yours holding fast,

at least I never saw you

grieve the way I do.

I didn't see it then

but see it now.

Wind

The hour is late, nearly lost
like all the others--
here now then gone
with the good old wind.
Alone, me, with leaves piled up
like corn flakes against my door,
I worry his ashes will blow away.
Because nothing is safe from wind.
I recall our boat ride to the whales,
how the ocean rocked beneath us,
how the wind threw waves at us,
how it tried try to pull us down
before our time.

Lost

The leaf has lost her self.
Time has flung her against a tree.
Look how she lays against the trunk--
vanishing into bark, nearly bark
herself, barely there,
only a sketch of tender youth
yet lovely, in a new and scary way,
like a torn-off goose wing;
its natural to pity this--
life wants to go on and on and on
so nothing's sadder even for a leaf
than this terrible want
in a world where nothing lasts,
where all I can do is look back
over my shoulder and weep
at this knowing, like the leaf,
I am earth not heaven bound.

Annoying

Time is not a slow decay
the days all rush away--and worse
I can't recall the days at all.
Fun days, hard days, sad days---
all fall with equal speed
into the past.
Almost nothing lasts--it's always
now,
the present always cloying.
It's so annoying.

Still

Four months later, his death still dims the light
in every room.
Still chills, still silences.
His robe still feels heavy on me--
yes I wear it still but I've let go
of parts of him. I've plunged into
that work like a mop into a bucket,
unpleasant work that must be done.
Still I feel a sting when I see his coat hanging
next to mine. Mints in the pockets, still fresh.
I feel too full and too empty,
like a hostage deprived of tenderness
who sweeps the floor to keep on going.
Still I tip toe past his ashes
as if he needed rest.

Courage

High up on Mount Diablo, along its ledged ascent, I forget 

he is dead. 

Above clouds, almost in night’s realm, I know nothing. 

Clouds flow under me as flocks of angels 

shielding me from the darkness below, 

waking me from all knowledge. 

From knowing I ever had a husband

nor knowing anything at all under cloud.

Indeed I am new born in veils of blue light. 

Used to just a picture in every room without the scan

of hazle eyes, no swallowing a brick.  

And just like that, I am used to living in sky

as if my house has been standing here all along, 

without its floor ever dropping away. 

And here’s what I tell myself:

Life must stay porous. Pathways must open 

so the mouse can wiggle free 

and the wild geese fly in. 

No matter how lonely I am, the world 

offers itself to my imagination.  

Mary Oliver believes this. I will believe her. 

Swear allegiance to her. 

But this will take patience. It will take time. 

It will take this palm fast on my heart.