The cat keeps coming and looking up
into my face. I think that grief
is a visible thing to her.
I stroke her elegant head,
aware of her small, vulnerable body.
How short our stay here,
and how confusing.
Lately, the men go here and the men go there,
striking and making and unmaking,
burning and warring and shouting.
Not all of them, but the loud ones.
And you, your life was quiet,
you quietly rebuilt our faith in each other.
Last spring you gave us photos,
softness stealing into your yard.
There were deer, and birds,
always birds. How apt.
My dear, dear friend,
I see that you have wings now.
Two bright and deathless
flames of light rise
from your slender shoulders.
At last we see you for who you are,
the fearless one who loved.
