Gratitude

Hand-cut flowers
of dry autumnal blazes
are perched on their branches
like leaves. The sun shimmers through them.
They sit on a chair in her now-vacant room.

It was raining on Sunday,
the clouds spilled
into the monochrome bay,
and I sat at my window watching
birds play – tumbling as though
into your gentle arms;
the way she did when you placed
a hand-cut bouquet on the chair
in her room with a view of the bay.

As your uncle played a melody, unconsciously
you hummed in tune, never off-key;
and she listened softly to the loving
bodies that sent the slightest tremors
through the air;
and a tear spilled down her loving cheek,
sharing in peaceful gratitude.