In this early February spring
light falls on the pale field
of weeds, on the dull red
bricks of the old school,
the rows of gravestones
and the passing cars.

Spring light enters my body
and rises bubbling until
my arms embrace the steering wheel
and my mouth delights in
the shape of your name.

In this early February
spring light traces
our coming together
in the winter wind.

One by one, they straggle in, some bringing
heart-shaped boxes of candy to give the rest, 
others with simple Valentines bearing heartfelt
notes of thanks to the group for mutual support.

And then she enters, a bit late, a box of
gooey donuts in her hand, their garish icing 
gleaming through the cellophane box lid—
more than enough for all.
  
Widowed now for two years, she’s brought
a variety—some iced with sticky chocolate, 
some neon pink, and some glazed vanilla topped 
with multi-colored sprinkles.

She’s sorry she was late, but she stopped
to pick them up on her way because it’s
Valentine’s Day, her husband was a cop, and 
they always had donuts down at the station.

We pass the box around, carefully lift out our
choices, placing them on the red napkins 
she’s also thought to bring. We always go out
to lunch after meetings, and many of us 

shouldn’t be eating this much sugar, or don’t 
really like such rich and gooey treats, but we 
eat them together while sharing our memories, 
tempering the bitter with the sweet.