Jeremy

When your wife died from pneumonia
last winter, I thought of the sycamore
we climbed in your backyard. The tree’s
mottled crust gripped our toes, and from
the lowest branch, we flung our bodies
to the dirt, wondering at the scuffed
archipelagos on our knees.

Dewberries bellied purple along
the chain-link fence. We plucked a few,
spines and bristles ribboning our catch,
and brought handsful to your mother
who stood at the kitchen window,
a milk jug open — a sour cold.
She had ten years left with your father.