after Kate Anderson
The water I walk over commuting
from my day job
holds the fragile moon, the face of a man whose aging
will never stop.
Slender rain spottily pinpricks his foamy cheeks and rounded jowls,
shatters as I through it into infinitesimal pools
on the shabby sidewalk all the way to home,
where it’s swishing and tangling in branches
of the drama-queen weeping willow
(I, too, want to cry and never stop)
I asked my dad to plant next to the greedy lilac
I imported to my own garden from Mom’s dad’s.
Is there a better way to honor passing eighty-three years
on kneepads among painted petunias and sassy bushes
all to lay fallow and eventually be remembered by no one
in a listing world
that never stops? I could have paused in my white of orbit,
tended the lilac with him while it was still his,
taken my here and there to his here and now.
I only have these pinpricks now and a waft of budding, a dent of rainfall.