A hunger is growing
not just for hugs
or being close enough
to look into your eyes
or smell your hair
but for all the spaces we used to inhabit
together, my friends of many years
your cat pacing our kitchenful of poems
soft light, tea and apples
painting after painting in rooms that dance
with your spirited swirls of red, ochre, Prussian blue
the view of your wide orchard from the couch
dog at the door
the quiet space you cleared for art-making
with fresh flowers, always
your rich chaos of a kitchen packed to the gills
with cookbooks and crockery
the sound of your boys playing while we talk
their art curling on the walls
I miss the settling breaths of my clients
as they enter my office.
I miss the fullness of feeding you at my table.
Remember steaming stuffed shells in winter,
asparagus and farro and feta in summer?