All around, February fields

blur into abstraction. Marsh

mixing to river, flash of red,

the interminable ache I carry

inside, smearing me like paint

across a canvas. In the window’s

mirror, I assemble your face,

unknown to me, from parts

my own. Again, I fail to hold  

the whole of it: gossamer eyes

staring out thin clouds, mute

mouth hovering along the gash

where mountains meet the sky.

So much easier to take in what

isn’t mine. In the distance, geese

are going home. Soft whacking

of wings across the water: bright

battery of sorrow. On the seat,

a book I will not read, core of

an apple half-bitten in my lap.

A mockery. My life passing by

without you in it. Clumsy me,

I feel around your absence

as if searching a bag for keys.