This is the time of year
When, lying in bed at night,
Worn images appear:
A woman, at life's height,

Married to a saint
Still talked of in these parts,
Who filled whole rooms with light
Escaping his heart.

And looking at her eyes, it was hard
To tell them from the stars—
You know, those slightly blue ones,
Or were they red, like Mars?

She and he were both caught in a wind
That held them up or sometimes offered a gentle toss.
Their interactions were so perfectly timed, it seemed that between
Them were strings, leading to a puppeteer's cross,

Linking one to the other. Not a solemn
And profound existence, but simple, making us
Feel and live lightly, one peak after another.
And until he fell ill, she always trusted

That God would never call him away.
They would retire together,
Open a bed and breakfast,
Happy to let me bury them both.

But, day after day, pain fell
From the sky, raining cancer
Into his body and filling the house
With tears— a slightly blue pair

Of eyes now stained red, turned to look up
At the sky (grey and white
With tumbling clouds), until
It could give those eyes an answer. Perhaps the sight

Of reason— an explanation for the broken promise
That heaven couldn't keep,
Leaving her alone with a child so young—
So small that I can't recall my father's face;

Young enough that it doesn't hurt me
Like I wish it did. Because I know she remembers
In solitude, my memory too blank
To offer any comfort.

I never could console her,
Not ten years ago and not now.
Remembering the scene
Is enough to make me cry: eyes down,

Neck bent, not wanting to remember, to again watch her walk out
Of the building, holding a pretty container, surprised
And horrified to find that there aren't just ashes
In there, but also tiny bits of bone. My blue eyes,

My red eyes, my tears seeming a mere mimicry
Of hers. For in her crying
There is an honesty I will never attain.
And I shake my fist at my false mourning.

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