Rain turning to snow
horizontal to the ground,
trees bent, rebounding, bent again,
soaked songbirds snagging sunflower seeds
from the feeder.
We are warm, dry, lucky.
It never rains in here,
or suffers the wind to blow.
The deer with the injured leg
is still alive, my daughter tells me.
It does not get any better than this.
His obit followed an e-mail: he had gone by choice.
Would I see to a newspaper clipping on the
pool room bulletin board? Yes.
As I tacked the paper up, they laid their cues
against the wall, gathered, read, talked
in unusually soft voices-- they are middle-aged
and mill-worker half deaf and often
bellow like buffalo to one another--
aware afresh of their own future obituaries
tacked to the board, aware of the voices of those left
reading the newsprint over ensuing days,
remembering, perhaps shivering some inside,
wondering how people will talk about them, after.
I have seen to the newspaper clipping on the
pool room bulletin board, knowing that at some point
it will be my photo and my life story, and that,
every time beyond the first few days of reading and
pondering, only those who grieve will remember.
