I open a purple envelope,
misplaced mail—
a postmark:  May 1

now mid-June.

Hello dear friend
Thinking of you
   specially  this  morning,
as I do on many
days . . .

Jean’s handwriting alive
one explanation point used sparingly—
just perfect.

All’s well here.
Please call me,  
so we can catch
up in LIVE VOICE
          Love

This is the last I hear.

I stand in my garden.
A gust of wind
bends the pale pink spike
of the tallest delphinium.

She has passed without my knowing.

 
Barefoot, I stab my big toe 
on an black oval stone
that juts above the mulch, a sudden
pain unbearable and sharp.

Her handwriting 
jiggles, jumps, meanders
before me:
the ink
still
is not yet dry.