Misha

that winter     you asked me   to scatter
your ashes in my garden             sheltered
under the big oak’s branches at the canyon edge
& I promised
lightly—
thinking that time still far away.

That spring   one day in March     they handed you
to me        heavy
in the zip-lock bag           hidden       inside
a velvet satchel.

I took you to my house           & kept you
tucked into that wooden box you loved,
carved with horses
& waited
ambivalent about who we had been together.

And then the fire came           mingled
ash with ash
till rain & wind disturbed
the frothy layers      & I found a small heap
gritty         rose-grey             flecked
with flakes of bone.

I shoveled you as best I could       carried you
to the old oak           now charred
spread you around the blackened trunk
and sat with you         and asked forgiveness

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