on the loss of your husband, my good friend, Jodi

 
with hand in hand we walk around the pond
with nothing to say, we breathe in the dawn,
its mist that swirls like a caress of dreams
coaxing us toward an inner wood, cool streams
running cold over bare feet, a green moss
clings to the smooth stones, lichen drips across
heavy arms of great oaks, to where we’re kissed
by a presence of silence simply dressed
and now sleep, to where we lay down alone