For hours I drove through night-fog, earth cold
and unfamiliar as a lover with face shawled.
Sunday circle, aging ladies gather one and one
and one. So many stories to be told and retold.
Earthquake shook the china off the shelf.
Church-bells, one against another, pealed.
When we pruned the roses, did they grieve?
How many blossoming summers they held.
I looked for you in the Garden of Drought —
lavender and sage — herbs the earth healed.
How you’ve made me laugh, so many years
we loved like children. How could we get old?
The wild goose mates for life. Look, a skein
of ten; a lone goose waiting in the field.