I brought Joe to mind this morning,
the liquid, guttural tone of his voice,
as he speaks – I don’t want to say,
as he spoke.
I know you hear him a thousand times a day,
the baby laughing,
the grown man chattering away,
the love he radiated.
I think how you ache, the singe of rage.
Torrential rains pelt your face, soak
clothes, shoes, nothing can possibly muffle,
or ease the loneliness of grief.
Yet, you bring me a bag of corn
from your garden and with a smile
hand me a bouquet of zinnias.
Yellows, pinks, salmons and gold.