It’s six months after
you accepted the anticipated silence.
Wettest February on record,
and something in the meanders
of my evening bus ride recalls
those exhausted journeys home.
Suddenly, physically, I miss you.

I fire up my phone. Time to listen
for counsel from ghosts, my hospice recordings.
It takes just a bleating alarm
to seize me. I’m sucked back
to all those hours at your bedside,
picking at berries, swapping kisses.
I long for that singular purpose,
shepherding those pressured cells
to connect with easy warmth
...