What is death but stepping through a door,
then onto summer lawns, with fathers waiting
or mothers chiding, “Why were you so late?”
—the clouds around their feet a billowed flooring
of golden cumulus reflecting more
of them than moon could manage, fallen sensate
into star-thronged eyes by a garden gate
when they were young.
And now that greeny roar
is gone. Now this: the tree, the swing, your dad
full-bellied still, your mother’s soaring smile
a wing; your brother racing from the house
and shouting “It’s my turn,” no longer sad
about his death.
And for a little while,
or ever, love is all that time allows.
