for my Husband (1942-2020)
 
I prepare three meals a day,
get the mail wearing purple gloves,
place it in a plastic grocery bag,
leave the bag in the garage for two days.
 
Plant last year's seeds found 
in the back of a laundry room drawer.
Water, water, water.
Wait, wait, wait.
 
Two-leafed hope appears after ten days,
just ten days, ten more days and ten more days.
At twilight the sun casts pink shadows in the east.
Yellow finches appear at my bird feeder. 
 
Robins make a home in our eaves.
The house smells of chicken soup.
Some days I dress.
Some days I don't.
 
I hear birdsong, feel the sun on my face, 
inhale the scent of banana bread, 
hold his hand,
hold on 
      to hope. 
                        

I taste scrambled eggs covered 
with cheddar cheese, and topped with toasted walnuts,
inhale the scent of a Honeycrisp apple just opened 
with a two-handled slicer, a gift from a friend. 
Lilacs nod their lavender heads above my table. 
The scent of childhood is everywhere.
A Mother's Day bouquet, German iris and yellow tulips rest 
on the glass table we bought at Klingman's together so many years ago.
Cardinals and yellow finches wait in the trees for a turn at my feeder. 
A red male presents his mate the gift of a sunflower seed.
The dogwood we brought from the old house 
has spread its arms and blossoms again.
Pots of parsley, thyme, basil and chive thrive on my deck. 
Two apple trees let go of petals, 
that blend like pink and white confetti,
as they have every year. 
I hear bird song. 
My husband is dead, 
but I am still here.