The Opaqueness of Glass

It’s been almost three years
since that evening when the sky
seemed to empty all at once;

a kite was mewling overhead,
and the rain stopped, and then
started again, and we walked
in squally puddles on the grass.

Some afternoons I go hiking
on the ridge above the shawl of pines
where we’d stop for a view of our house
and when I get home...feel lost.

Remember that last night with you
you had me massage your feet
while you drifted away to that island
where touch was your only life-raft

until the breath that was you
became the rosy-fingered dawn
misted our pond – lifted
and, too soon, was gone.

And some mornings – early
on the terrace, I see a reflection;
amongst the wild dewberries,
the abyss of your absence
on sun-struck glass.