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.