Smoke from a late fire
smothers the sunrise
under a cranberry harvest;
smells of campfire puffs
on a corduroy brush jacket.
Irrigation ditches aflame
with seeded asparagus,
lick the last from puddle
mud and roll to sleep
under hoary grass.
Two years since that October
and here we are again, me
sitting at your feet trying
to tell you my life in Spanish,
laughing. You’ve been away
and I am out of practice.
As I stand to go, I read the poem
engraved in your granite
headstone and paper leaves swirl
around my feet on a breath
colder than glitter flakes
and black star voids.
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