Relaxing, supine
on my back on this red cedar bench
set into your backyard patio stones
near the gazebo you built,
I soak up
the late afternoon sun
that makes fuzz specks in
my closed eyes
on this warmest day so far
in April.

I sense your former strength
through these solid planks
you arranged and hammered in here
to make this low triangular seat
two summers ago,
the craft of your tradesman hands
staining the wood vibrant,
still sounding of your voice
through the cracks,
as if you’d never died.

Your two cats stretch out alongside
me, their warm fur bodies
nuzzling up for love strokes
as we bake ourselves
a short while.

But permeating through the pleasure
of the sunbeams
so much of you
impossible not to remember...
your dreams and accomplishments
on this, your's and my sister’s land,
in what you called God’s Country.

The woodpecker works away
at the spruce tree,
(you used to string with Christmas lights)
and the damp grass surrounded
by water pools near the horse field
yields to drying in select patches.

A blue sky spreads over us
celestially, bled into by
the stark white of birch,
paled by your absence?

How can it all -
even this cedar bench that supports me -
still exist

trying to be same?

04/10/2005