By Evelyn Lau
Published in 16.2
In Summerland, the hours of silence are long.
Even this one life, said to be over in a day,
holds space that stretches to the horizon.
Abundance, then a harvest of loss—
berries in a bowl, plucked from an orchard
sagging with fruit, then the fires
sweeping across the sky above Kelowna.
Each summer perhaps the last, yet I can’t
love the world any more than this.
The view from a bridge, a thousand windows
shining in the salty sun.
The wind in the trees, a tangle of sweet water;
silver sage and burnt lavender
to scent our sleep. The bitter cream of almonds.
Someday I will stand on the lawn
of the hospice where you died,
the cemetery where your ashes were scattered.
Someday I will make that pilgrimage,
like a stranger who loved you. Let my eyes
hold the last thing your eyes held
in their vision, mottled wall or crumbed carpet,
the beauty of it all rushing in, too late.