‘Tis a fearful thing to love what death can touch. – Yehuda HaLevi
There should be no end to tears, you said,
offering the whole box of tissue to the new widow
who wanted an end to hers.
There should be no end to laughter, I said.
We should dance until the song ends
linger just a moment longer in the embrace
steal an extra moment when no one is looking.
I will turn to you for the full arc of your bloom
hold your hand while it stills from death
hold on a little longer to accept the full gift of grief:
your warm-hearted essence
cooled by shifting breeze
technicolor memories
losing their chlorophyll
curling and drying until they drop
piling up as late fall’s leaves
after a windstorm.
A new vow:
You can count on me
to make a mess of this pile
a ruin of careful planning and “just so”
to feel my big feet small in your chunky rubber boots
to jump in
stamp around
sing amidst the swish and cracking
kick memories this way and that
dance in the leaf-tossed air
fall back in the moist musty bed
laugh at the sight I must make
a grown woman playing in dead leaves
who no longer has to come in before dark
who can cry as long it takes
until no longer afraid to live
in the world you have left.