The morning after the slaughter 
of hatchlings, a lone heron flies from the west
to a nest atop a palm tree. I walk the beach,
and in everything I see there is Heron:
in the carcass of a tree washed ashore
one root appearing like neck and beak
twisted toward the boardwalk
as if to watch for passersby.

Sometimes I think the eye is like the mind,
intent on meaning, in love with signs,
the way that after your death
I would see you, tall and lean
our dog on leash, distant walker
from land far, far from reach.

My husband never liked the color blue,
though he loved the LA sky,
and lakes and seas and swimming pools.

When I wanted a dress, or car, or room
in cerulean or just plain blue, I told
him blue was green or gray.

Because our love was wide and deep
he did believe in every word I’d say.

You are the rosemary I add to the soup: 
how you pressed pungent bristles
between thumb and finger, 
how you lay sprigs atop red potatoes 
glistening in olive oil, salt,
house alive with the fragrance
of vegetables roasting
on any given day of the week.

1,095 days past your death, young one, 
I sometimes escape the earthquake 
of absence upon awakening, 
but daily remembrance, I never escape: 
today, it was rosemary, yesterday, 
blue sea glass washed up at my feet.

Sympathy pears are paired
with apples and a promise
of shipping within two days.
Regular pears and apples
take longer to box and send.

Sympathy pears and apples
are suitable for painting, 
but the artist must supply
the skull, the worm, or fly.

Sympathy pears and apples
arrive with no protocol of care: 
simply eat or ignore, no chore 
to water, prune, or keep abloom.

Dear Bereaved One,
eat, or not, while you ponder
a Better Place, His Will, 
Her Plan. Everlasting Love.
Or none of the above.

Stupored from sleep, I survey my clothes.
Clothes left in the closet untouched 
for a year, or longer, touch each garment 
as if it were cashmere or silk, 
hanging in a palace of goods 
I could never afford, even dare enter.
Such is the breadth of my longing.

Turning to the task at my feet, 
I rifle a basket of unfolded laundry 
for my costume of sweatshirt and jeans. 
Living from basket to hamper to basket,
I dress, lace my shoes, set out for a walk
to start one more day in the dark.