the seasons here are mild: the age-old device
of invoking the weather to represent
the inner drama is only occasionally apt
and especially not tonight

unseasonable misty rain. the nightly walk
is scented like a freshly powdered
baby (and i’m not trying to be poetic)
wet hair. smiling. alone.

the details of your script defied all scrutiny:
along with your aquiline nose, the fading
memory of a few. you only knew one lullaby,
but we’ll sing them for generations