Eight months gone, now.
I’m feeling so adrift, so unmoored, so
un anchored
f l o a t i n g
in the cold water, the frigid air.
Small things strike me sharply,
goslings (goslings! so soft and wobbly) with their mommas learning to find food.
As I am, learning to find food.
I wanted to call you, text you to tell you about the goslings, their newness on my drive
the way you used to tell me.
There is no one to call,
no one at the end of that line
As sharp as the first snow,
the first buds, then blossoms on our cherry tree,
the first everything since I last saw your face.
The Salty Widow 