It was always snowing
when I visited.
Remembering, I see you
again and again
opening the door,
and then your face
as if it mattered that I came, as if it
made some kind of difference after all.
You'd offer tea
and one day,
worrying that I was cold
coming out of my boots,
you gave your rag wool socks to me
to wear, warm from the radiator.
Each time I came
there was less of you waiting,
less hair,
less fullness to your face,
less energy.
Only your elaborate eyes increased,
taking my breathe away.
Sometimes we'd meditate.
The animals would join us.
Or you would let me read to you,
Audre Lourde or Mary Oliver.
I thought that there would be
more time,
that Spring might come
and we might see a bit of it begin
before you left us.
Every now and then
I find myself
looking for you.
Just now, between the branches
of the birch, I catch the rich
mosaic colors of your eyes,
but then clouds close.
-- Deb Cooper