It's Still Life

Air Won’t Hold Her

this air won’t hold leaves,
it is to watch a thousand
souls falling.

wind.
unstitched.

I am all
of my ancestors.

it is as she said,
to hold darkness
is your last veil.

this is the last
of eight days,

of Samhain.

I remember the year
it snowed
on Samhain,

the dark arms of trees
widespread.

I walked in my footsteps
back to the house.

snow deep.
ivy frozen to the chimney.

grow lavender for me
when I’m gone, she said.

in memory of this
blind-eyed snow,

and say goodbye before
the veil staggers

like King Lear
holding Cordelia.

I read King Lear
one summer, cried

as I watched
purple pathways of sky.

become a cloud —
poor Cordelia.

autumn dies
to bring back winter,

and every movement of air
which should be stillness,

feels thick
as smoke.

her arms carried answers,
her perpetual gaze,

and again
she leaves.

the air
can’t hold her,

shudder of the veil
as her hand brushes
my memories.

and I find my footsteps
waiting for me.