Tears of Grief, Tears of Joy

Light and Ice

Light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for eyes to behold the sun.

—Ecclesiastes

I follow her tracks up the hill—my friend Who walked this way before has left Her footprints in the snow—to where another Friend is buried, that is to say, her ashes are, Where years ago we saw an owl in the pine Above our heads, peering at us from her nest. Slim needles shiver, caked with ice as Sharp wind bites like bitter teeth, this year Of grief, so many deaths, and I, myself, No longer young. Can vanity be all there is? The broken branch, the crumbling wall, The nest itself long turned to dust. What has been is what will be. When, suddenly, the sun breaks through The dark thick shroud of winter cloud. Ice dazzles, melting; needles gleam, The slow drops glistening as they fall, Like tears of grief—or, maybe, joy: This gentle warmth, The light so sweet.

Touched

Before you die We meet for lunch, For more than lunch, We meet to talk. We talk of death, We talk of life, Your life and mine, What might have been, What is instead, And what might follow When we’re gone. We talk of fish. We both love fishing. You tell me stories, I tell mine; and, when We part, we kiss Goodbye.

I fish this fall and think Of you, and, as I do, My line pulls tight, A landlocked salmon Strikes, fights, leaps, Line singing out before He dives. Deep down He plays a waiting game, And once again I think Of you, the night we Wrestled—no, we fought, But you were stronger And you won. That day We met I mentioned this. “Do you remember?” “Yes,” you said, “and after That,” you said, “we Touched.”

We did touch, but I had long forgotten How we lay upon the bed, In tender touch, a tender time As snow fell softly through the Night.

I think of this; I think of you As the salmon slowly tires, as Inch by inch, I bring him in. Three pounds or more, he fills The net, the largest fish I’ve Ever caught. His eyes hold Mine. We briefly touch as My hands lift, and he slips Free.