For Suzanne

I wept when I grew

out of the tiny window-sill

I slept in. In your little library

under the dusty study where

the books sung me to sleep

and the sun stung me awake. 

I blossomed when I ran, barefoot,

in the garden you raised in place 

of an infant. I learned with the peach-tree,

planted close to the tulips, at the same speed

as we both became more gaunt and pale

from the cold winter snow, we thawed. 

I softened when the shiny Montana 

cherries winked in flaring sunny buckets, 

when the rugged sourdough bread and unyielding 

cheddar became breakfast,

when the baby tomatoes, protected by 

garden snakes alone, ripened. 

I learned when I sat in the window seat, cushioned

by self-tailored pillows and old newspapers. Saw white 

and stained photos of pigtails and red wine in green

glasses. Cigars in cars where my flashy

blue eyes came from. 

I remembered when you showed me, the second

time. Through your half-blind 

eyes, you made me miss vain and swaying

pine trees. You painted, 

and I pretended.

I kept my elbows off

the table and tried to keep

eye contact. I nodded, with my head some

where else, like your own son. 

I didn’t understand how soon I would be alone without

your stories: of war and of Fuji apples,

Tibet and the Dalai Lama.

And we were quiet  For the last time.

Silence was fleeting and the sky

was warm. We drank the radio 

and the sun, and we did 

not look at one another.