Documentary

My pushpin goes here on
the map of your death
to this point, to what I want to
remember of it
the wind, the breeze, the

hazy sunlight and the feeling
in my temples of looking out into the woods
sitting beside you
you, going out, coming in, coming back
you, reaching across the sheet for my hand
which I did not expect
you, with your surprisingly cold hand

you, saying, I'm ready
and nothing more

all the brown and heavy oak leaves
more than falling, more than raining down
blown down, made to come down
from so high
from so much another place to here
the journey so fast, so quickly done
some skittering dry and light through the wide and
open door
there isn't any word
for how they sailed, slid, and sounded, so light!
from the trees out there
to the room, in here
where you were and weren't

it was Halloween
it was unusually warm, and humid
like spring, in fall

and the high voices of your children
and my children
finding and excited
out walking in the woods and
unmindful of us, or this moment

like the outside
breeze and leaves
carrying to us.