" Habit "
It probably won't get
any higher than 60 today.
The imperfect orange sweater,
knitted her last summer, bears a hint
of moth ball odor,
but it fits snug, it's warm,
it's comforting.
I'll lean back and rock a while
on the porch
in the old wicker chair;
it won't be long now
before we take it in for the winter
and at some point,
lost in thoughts of her,
I know I'll reach
for them like we used to do
as we rocked and traded tales,
and the sublime frustration
of reconciling their absence too
will feel as familiar as my grief.
I'll probably think for a moment
I miss them
until I remember it was them
that took her --
puff by puff by puff.
© 2002 Plove (Peggy Eldridge-Love)
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