Remembering TJ After the Funeral
We are as confused as the season.
The calendar insists on January,
depicts sparkling, icy-blue scenes.
But snow sags into pitted grey lumps,
runoff pooling into slick driveway bogs
and freezing into deep ruts
while we toss and turn through long starless nights.
Only the wind yields some sympathy,
whirling mercifully into unexpected empty spaces
that should still be warm from your busy body.
It curls around our numb shoulders
and reminds us that this is how things go.