It was at the garden gate where you waited for me…
and as we passed through together
you stopped, tilted back your head, studied the sky, breathed in the evening air…
you raised your eyes, you stepped away
I bent to fill my hands with the last of the rosemary and sage
cut the last of the autumn flowers
catching their color
just before they’d fade
reached for the apples that
hung, ready to fall
walked alone back through the gate
I held out my hand for your bowl
longing to fill it as before
with the fruit of my gathering
the herbs, flowers,
apples,
the wisdom and the remembrance
But my hand returned to me
empty…
my grief flows away on salted waves,
my heart waiting
for the keening to quiet. . .
