(Karen Enns)
After she was gone and the house emptied of her books
and calendars, her pots, the tins and vegetables,
after the combs had been gathered
from her dresser drawers and the sweater
hanging on the back of her chair
was taken off by someone as a gift or keepsake
and the chair pushed in, I went into her room.
I lay down on her bed and felt the shape of her.
The maple leaves were shaking in the yard,
the sky a clear, steel blue. July.
Only weeks between her thoughts and mine,
there on the bed, the window open and the maple tree.
And I remembered how she always thought of summer sadly
as the slow beginning of less light.
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