Blue skies, seventy degrees

but it’s almost November,

the chrysanthemums hanging on.

Prickly burs fall

from the Chinese chestnut tree,

some stems loosen, others still cling.

A squirrel pries out a nut, buries it.

Perhaps it will grow into a new tree.

I can feel my feet where they touch 

the grass, as it stiffens, readying for change.

I do not know what comes next, 

but I think of you reaching out 

from wherever you are as the air drifts 

across my face, touches me.

Every word you say enters me.

This is what it means to hear.

The air between us

shifts silently, unseen,

vibrates in that precise way

to which my eardrums respond,

my brain absorbs, translates

into words and song.

If I see you—the shape

of your nose, the tilt

of your head, the warm

inquiring smile–light waves

flowing from you have entered

my eyes, invisible threads

bind us.

The tulips had wilted, stalks bent,

blooms touching the cherry

wood of the kitchen table.

They seem beyond saving.

My husband says they were

on sale anyway. He sometimes

behaves as if we are living

in the great depression, the big

house I always wanted—someone

had to give in. I add water

to the vase and the tulips recover,

stand upright, bright yellow

like the forsythia we planted

this day over four decades ago.