She knows

Each morning she finds him
packing the same bag
when nothing will be needed.
The man who once painted
crowds of dahlias reaching for the sun
has forgotten their name.
He leans against her,
fingers of their cramped hands
braid into a cup.
She watches the wrens and chickadees
gather at the feeder, their manners,
how they perch on the vine-maples,
dart quick as a thought,
calls drifting like the echo of bells.
The flutter of their small bodies
has become her first comfort.
She knows that soon
she will turn his body to ash.
They will go to sleep early tonight
and when she helps him dress,
he’ll ask again about the bag.
One day in early winter
she’ll spread the grey powder
along their path,
hang his name on the air.
On the porch swing
she watches
the light lick the rocks
as the days turn
from plums to frost.