Long Meadow


Behind our house,

she walks to the beach.


“The sand is not what it used to be,

but the water sounds the same

as that day when I saw the

Grey Heron with a

broken wing,” she says.


She holds my hand and tells me

she gambled her time.


With a quiet grin, she stares into waves.

She counts the petals plucked

from the bouquet.


Her wish is sincere.

She’ll wait, at least until Sunday.


 Outside the church, her grave will be

filled. I feel like I can smile.


Our family stands at the edge of sand

and watches her step into water. She

says grey days are her favorite

at the lake.


I give her a bouquet of Queen Anne’s Lace and Black Eyed Susans.

Her hands are cold.

She looks back at all her loves and smiles,

walking further into the water.

Glistering like lacquer.


From the dock, I watch her swim.

She stops and tells me the dried flowers

in the windowsill look pretty.

I turn to face the house.


There is a bouquet, glowing. I tell her we

picked the flowers together last fall.