Coming Out of The Cold

There will always be nights
like this one, where sleep won't
come and the worries of the day
lay heavy upon the heart like the ice-laden

branches weighing down the magnolia,
taking at random the most frail limbs
of the dogwood tree whose bottom most
branch held the last gift your brother gave

us, the Christmas he knew he was leaving,
when his body and breath failed him and his hands
could not sustain the work of building a birdhouse
from the gourds his summer garden laid heavy

upon him, wrecked as he was with cancer, weariness
cradling him. I could go gather the remains, fashion
wreaths from the remnants, make a cornucopia
from the rotted shell he gave us, but what difference

would that make now, him seven years gone,
no birds ever having roosted in his attempts,
you sleeping away the night, his passing too real
for you to even visit in your dreams, me only

giving him this space in my own failed attempt
at sleep, loving him more in death that I could
in life, my intentions pure but wholly misguided.