When the phone rings in hushed stillness
of pre-dawn, before the larks stretch
their songs to the blue, to the blue —
it’s not good news.
You didn’t wake this last week —
eyes closed to fluorescent brightness,
to the pink cheer of painted daisies,
window shades blocked against copper sunsets.
Where were you,
wrapped in sleep-yet-not-sleep?
Rain and more rain
while I worked, bought milk and bread
before the storm, caught a cold,
cooked dinner — you channeled
your strength to cross that last bridge,
not looking back even as it crumbled behind you.