I don’t know what my last sight
Of you will be, it may swing either way.
Most likely I’ll be the one going out the door
But until the bond of synapse is broken
There’s one memory I’ll always have of you:
Bending over in the rhubarb bed
Strangely detached and remote from the house
Where I stand watching out the kitchen window
You’re like a visitor marveling at a stranger’s garden
Taking inventory of the shadowy furrows
I turn, stooped and slow as if freshly aware
Of the heaviness of my body, and from the back
of my head I see you’re already a bird
Winging your way downhill
To the wild blackberries