Christmas, 2004 / No. 13

No cloud, the drop of a penny, a sign from the sky.

Nothing stark as that would

mark this walk our last together—

nothing subtle either.

Not the wide-porch houses I had often

spoken of liking.

Not the bench in the park, the

sugar maple trees,

their leaves.

Not the woollen toque you brought

along in case of rain.

Except that I was longing for you to give it to me,

as tender—and thought that mere

desire would suffice.