the catskills

the river outside turned
to ice on Sunday and I watched
it from the window
of my home
my eyes were wet cause i'd just
learned of John's passing
sometimes this sort of thing
is just a blessing
like the fire in the eye
of a grey whale
before she goes down
sinks with great power into the dark
but maybe it's not so much
to think about
six winters ago
I wouldn't have known what to say
about it
and it's no different now
just the house feels colder
and the women in town
treat me more like a father
whose hand to hold
than a man to love and try
to change
but I don't think it's anything
different
it's a crack in the barn door
where a little moonlight steals in
it's nothing much to think of
so I brewed the last of the tea
and drank it all angelically
standing at the window
I watched the falling
snow fill up the tracks
of an old coyote
who sometimes wanders by