I’ve seen the lowest
sunlight’s amber lips
brush up the redwood’s neck.

A sentence occurred to me
that isn’t true: hours
ago, my mother died.

I was thinking in the clearing
of what to call the feeling:
someday, I will be more sad

than I have ever been.
But maybe it’s worse now.
I am smug in my heart.

I’m admiring how fierce the press
of observation is. I will fold in
on myself, knowing I did not prepare

in soft ways for grief, that I kept
myself hard, never putting aside
a letter tied with rosemary in the drawer.

Until I remember,
I will go on to forget.
The candlepan makes faith with its spilling ward.

Some years into the future,
I have a porch lined with planters
filled with ugly vixen blossoms,

seeded to receive glittering visitors
by my older hand. I’ve made arrangements
for the loneliest moment of my life.