Consolation

"... I watch the fields
their leased light
the fox at play"
          ~ D. Bonta


How it was late, and no one had started
to chop the mushrooms for the one intricate
main dish. And there was the log of meat

resting on the counter, waiting to be rolled
and wrapped in a stretch of pastry. Seeing
the helpless desperation in her eyes I said,

Tell me what you would like me to do— knowing
another pair of hands rushing the potatoes 
along or frothing oil and lemon together

to glisten the snipped greens might not 
ease her sadness, only serve as delegated 
distraction. I have been her, this

very moment at a different time, mourning
for a different child, but all the same.
The grief isn't for death, not simply

that matter of leaving the body, the body 
of the world, but perhaps keener in its 
own way. We are so grateful for 

the smallest signs of warming. For the bubble
lifting from the bottom of the glass. For  
the sound of a door opening after long silence.