Light Falling Slant Over Blue Heron Lake

This is a poem to my friend Jim, whose last name
I never knew, whose home I never visited.
I did not know your children or grandchildren
or if you had any. I did not know your favorite foods
and how you liked to have them cooked, or if you liked music,
or sports, or the titles of any of your favorite books.
I did not even know if you could read. 

I knew you loved waterfowl—oh how you loved them—
carrying over one shoulder a large white canvas bag filled with seed,
and ignoring the occasional sign saying “Do Not Feed.”
I knew you were married. In the early days of knowing you,
I saw you bring your frail wife and how she would sit on a bench
near the edge of the lake, her sweet and confused smile,
watching you scatter seed. How tenderly you cared for her and the birds.
Then one day, and the many days after, you came alone.
Now, you are gone.

-

After Florence’s Death, I Tell a Friend About Your Eviction

That’s a shame, said Andy, our friend the optimist.
But it might be good. Jim’s a mountain man.

I share his comment with you before loading
your fishing gear onto the truck you borrowed.
No, you say, eyes wet with too many goodbyes. 
I am an ocean man.

I remind you of the one time you, Florence and I
visited the ocean. From the look on your face,
you don’t remember our trip, or how we scrambled
up sand dunes and over ice plants into frothy waves.
Florence splashing with delight.

We clutch memories in our grieving fists,
sand trickling down between empty fingers.