Her lights

When she died, they found love set in store,like Christmas candles, high up on a shelf;when it came down, their hands no longer touched,but, raising arms, saw what they’d always known – soft rituals of care – by new, internal lamps:a lemon-sugared sponge, leaf-burning days,the “nonsense” gifts, and field-edge walks with dogs,her gold-brown fingers sewing at a hem…These lanterns left for them to put aboutat windows cracked by disappointment’s fist,or tint drab work-worn walls; and lift those dayswhen morning came on like a cramp; and close night eyes - bathe their faces gold, as: “Turn, your faces, loves,from inevitable woe. And watch these wicks we lit together glow.”