for Georgette

The gate of your studio is locked
though the mail comes and goes.

I play the coward:
last month I left a note that I wrote
on a styrofoam cup that I found
on the curb: came by, it said
thinking of you.

I know you're waiting -
not for me, but for his yahrzeit,
and the walls are bare.
White canvas, a void you can't fill: an imprint
of flesh on the bed,
of hands in clay, and the smell
of him, fading.

But walk a little way in the orchard,
and you see how the tree's roots extend.
The children,
coined and partnered now, and parenting,
aligned in their beauty, their faces
speak to you now of him.
In row after row of days
their hands still reaching up,
the seed bears forth,
and spring rushes over us.
And surely the people are grass.

You taught me
how to put stones on a grave
and I am foolish
but I stand here at your gate,
for the moment,
with empty hands.