no matter how 
many brownies I bake
or hugs I give or scented 
candles or bottles of wine I gift, 
no matter the hours grading papers 
to help my student be stronger, smarter, 
or hours of conversation with you, books
or poems written, numbers of squirrels 
fed or butternut squash harvested, 
bills paid, sinks scrubbed,
birthday cakes frosted, 
it’s not enough
to save you from 
dying.
                        

Grief makes me hollow, fragile
like glass blown too thin,
cooled too swiftly,
and all I want is to crouch, 
rigid, holding my shape, 
so nothing splinters—
but you—
you want to hold me, 
comfort, but if you 
touch me,
this cylinder that’s 
barely holding 
the air inside it
will s h a t t e r
                        

is the seed scattered deep on the porch
where two squirrels jumped hard 
on the feeder, tumbling it to the deck,
then escaped to the trees where they sat
twitching their tails at the indignity; 

and what remains are the friends 
coming tonight to eat
salmon in red wine sauce
and mushroom risotto, 
minus one deeply missed. 
And we will eat on Wedgewood, dammit,
and sip from Baccarat and pierce
our salad greens with silver tines
as the sun weeps golden light 
among the tree branches;

and what remains even after sunlight
are candles, and the memory 
of the squirrels twirling
around the tree trunk one after the other,
and the smell of spring dirt
desiring new seed, and 
even emptier or dimmer, 
it’s still worth looking out the window,
setting the table,
lighting the candles,
waiting.