Today, I haven't been able to fit everything into one haiku:
After that morning
I write this poem many times
It's never finished
On that other hill
We left you when you left us
Fourteen winters pass
The years don't erase
Imprints of death and then grief
Slowly, writing fades
For a little history, here is an older poem, from A Steady Longing for Flight:
Rain soaks the spare grass without mercy.
I come here less and less,
wait for the stone chosen last summer.
A slab of granite, an odd comfort.
You left behind anniversaries
like so many crumbs of bread:
the night we met,
the morning we married
and now this holy day
I observe on my own.
I can get to the cemetery myself.
Beyond that, I have no maps, no rules,
no way to call up and ask
if I'm doing this right.
I see a little sun right now, and feel thankful to be alive.