Sonnet for Philbey

Sonnet for Philbey

I used to hold her in one hand
and can again, now she is frail.
Her breath is mine: the rise and fall
of her breast; her head on my chest.

She reaches out, her lips pull back
to show a smile that is no smile
I care to see.
                                I bury her

in rain. In rain that fails to wash
the mud from shoes as I stumble
over stones.
                                Stumble over words
that leave less marks than my wet soles.

For in the end, the grief I share
is nothing to the grief I bear.