For months I dream

the blind cloudlessness

of his dying,

then one day I close my eyes and see him,

blackbird in my front yard,

coruscant, larger than a heron,

both posture and beak so familiar

it sends me reeling.

I stagger when the moon

absorbs the sun,

reappears swollen and reborn

on the hillside, changeling.

People cluster below

like trillium. When I look down

into myself, transfigured,

I see souls passing, lambent,

peeling away the umbra’s

charred garment.

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