Encapsulating the Day

Long day but no longer than any other, time
being what it is. Hard. His daughter dead. Her mother
dead. Another toddy while dinner cooks.

No plants beneath the carport this year, first
time in 22 years. Maybe they did not need to be
there. No herbs planted. No taking pains with

the tolerant ones who grow despite the weeds.
His daughter dead. Her mother dead. My father now a long
time dead. Green peppers, stuffed, and fresh corn

on the cob. A fridge full of veggies. All the healthy
plans. Needs of the body and mind. Other needs

on hold. Holding a pen, writing the words, attempting
to explain a mother dead, a daughter dead. A rose
bush waiting by the back door. Aroma filling

the house. Peppers! Peppers! No rain, the herbs
still hanging out. Body warm and unafraid now.
Let sleep try to interrupt. Let it. Fight. Rub

the fingers together. Keep the blood flowing.
Keep the food cooking. Keep the daughter
here, let the mother go. Go. Fan noise, light

noise. Light. Silent night. Light loud. Light
surrounding. Fishing? Not many times.
Threw them back. Could not understand

the piercing of mouth, the cruelty. Rainbow
trout sizzling on his father's grill. Fresh chives
scattered. Tears for his father. Let the daughter

go. The fries are cold, the drive long. Patient
now. Patient. This is life. The cilantro,
washed and dried, packed in a plastic

bag, the smell on the fingers. Aroma. Let
her go. Life is here and now. Life. Shells
from the eons worn around the neck,

a scarf knotted above the waist, eyes
as blue but tearing, tearing. Sky filled
with fluff. Sky all around. Sky unyielding.