“AJ?” Your voice over the phone
Was frail as paper. “I was
Hoping you’d put in a call.”
As if I’d rung you up
To register a complaint.
And I tried to picture you,
Your curled, obstinate brown head
Propped up, your back supported
So you could watch the cardinals
Sport and feed in the winter wet.
“Tell me the news.” And I gave you
The only report you wanted:
How the quivering coyote cries
Rang over the cove each night,
How your garden faired,
The birdsong and the black bears
Making mischief in our
Garbage cans. “Thank you, my boy,”
You said. “Talk soon.” And that was it.
Now the birds are still here,
The crocuses flare blood and purple
At the heels of poplars
Among last year’s sodden leaves,
But there’s no one on the other line,
And I can only complain to heaven.
really beautiful - thank you for sharing this.