Spring, 93: For Bill
Come brother, put your memories here
to see if together they might be enough
to fill the Void where our parents used to be.
They both died in the early spring, I think
before things had really begun to grow.
The snow gone on the land not yet.
Faint breathings of spring in the air outside,
inside, death rattles and the soft tinkle
wheeze and drop of hospital routine.
Later, the drive to the church under leafless
trees, then cold meats and numb laughter
in the dark wood of the aging undercroft.
I would not summon them back, would you?
Nor would they come, I know, if called.
But O my brother, when the cold begins to leave
the land, it leaves behind a weight of grief
so great that I would cling to winter
all my life and pinch back lilac buds
to keep the snow intact, the season pure.