I am thinking of age
driving past the familiar
this tree, so wide around
this house, never painted but
just grey
the river, cold gunmetal
below the road, running my eye
taking the faint sun
that finds it
and I remark that this year
has been quiet in the way
of leaves- brown blight, rain, the
sharp frost that I scrape
white to my knuckles in the morning
Were they better before? I don't
want to remember
and I can say, Rose, I know
this need to be still, to stop
going forward in a way
I could not when you died-
to hold this air, and have it stay,
sharp as stars
within me.

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