The last of winter

Sometimes, to avoid sadness, I ask



what I will think



when I know I am dying.



There, an orchid blooms



and wilts. I wish



I had loved more people.



            Winds, preserve the shape



of me, turns I make



in the dark. I steer



thoughts through forests,



leave freight behind



that warehouse where my friend lives—



drawn into pages of directions,



his light-pencil. In his eyes,



traces of words: gray, faint, edgeless.



            They are for me.



Lay them out on the motionless



river, walk with blue flame in mind



and give my friend my hand.