February in Deep Melancholy
How can she talk, and from where, about roses and what
we will plant? Soup. How can she ask about soup?
How does she lean over now to pet the cat? She’s laughing
about his odd jumping. She’s pointing at something.
She’s asking again. She wants to know about making
an arch for the roses. She wants to know
about the pumpkin seeds on the soup.
She’s calling from a great distance.
The bulbs are coming back! The ones we ripped out!
They’re coming back! She’s moving around,
speaking quickly between things.
She’s calling from the edge of the yard.
She’s smiling at the edge of the yard near the sidewalk.
She’s saying Look, the first tulips are coming up! Look!
She’s pointing at something. My wife
is pointing at something — Aren’t you excited
about the tulips? There’s soup with pumpkin seeds on top.
Do you like the butternut squash soup?
my wife had wanted to know. Do you like the pumpkin seeds
on top? Now she says, Look! Look! Look!
She is saying it again and again — slowly
bringing me back — from where? — I notice the soup
is cold — back from where — I thought I couldn’t return —
Do you like the soup? my wife says. Did you see
the tulips? Come on, she reaches her hand
from the bottom of the porch stairs,
step into the sunlight for a moment.
* * * * *
Morning
One piece of toast left,
and I burnt that shit.
Why? Distracted,
reading a poem I love —
an old one T’ao Ch’ien wrote
over sixteen hundred
years ago,
under a thatched roof
drinking wine
after a day spent
harvesting grain, hoping
no frost brings ruin.
Whatever makes living
precious, T’ao wrote
from the other side
of the world, occurs
in this one life.
How that poem speaks
to me here, still,
year after year. Now,
mourning my friend’s death,
I drink black coffee
while T’ao fills
the kitchen with smoke.