01/22/2019
He took newspaper
and stuffed into the window
where the freezing night
howled through.
Flies in the summer
now this had come.
Wood stove only ashes...
fluttering when the draft was open.
No money there for cord wood, and he'd seined
the acreage for burnables.
The bed on the floor
packed high in quilts
would not be enough.
He wore coat and hat
beneath covered futility.
Curling up, shaking.
A dream came to him,
from when she was still here.
Summer sun radiating heat. He swam for the rocks.
but she was swift in the flow.
His legs dragged.
She made the rocks ahead
and lounged gracefully upon them,
as the model she was
profile turned up into the sun,
red hair glistening in the sun.
He struggled,
his eyes never left her.
Beauty, and tender fragility
of a fragile summer flower.
Pressed between the pages of that one novel.
Crushing grief when she was gone,
time didn't heal, only time.
The great plains tore at the old
clapboard farmhouse.
In those precious fragmentary moments...
he repeated her name. Slowly.
Silently, "Jessica, my beloved Jessie."
Eyes closed, to any earthly light.
"Jess..."
