~After Jean Valentine

I think it’s about time we went fishing,
he said when the quicksand
of life inched up to her Adam’s apple

divorce is a dry canyon of one
winged birds


Gramps loved her all-out
Not many have what she had
Does he have a rub-off factor?

I think about him every day,
every hour, she said after he closed
his 95-year-old eyes and floated



the only soul I’ve cherished

singing to tadpoles
red salamanders darting
child-splash in the small green pond

torn knees of his denims
I mended with thick strands
raven, sunflower yellow