heading into the post office to mail a book,
and there, next to my car, it lies face up,

hearting at me. I blink, begin walking, but
after three steps, I turn and return to bend

and peer more closely—a lone cookie encased
in plastic, the kind you might find in a bakery,

intact, not a crack or a crumble on its heart-y
icing. I think, I’ll leave it here for the next

person who comes along needing some
love. But when I come out of the post office,

it has begun to drizzle, and it occurs to me
that the sweet heart might not withstand

the predicted drenching to come. So I pick
it up, looking for someone to offer it to,

but there is no one. I am alone in the P.O.
parking lot, a rare occurrence on a Saturday,

as drops dot me and the cookie. And I wonder,
Is this some kind of sign?

Which is when the voice of my long-dead
red-haired angel cracks from the overhang

of dove gray cumulus: Honey, you think this is
an accident? How many times have I told you:

There are no accidents. Who do you think
this is for? And—tempted to remind her

that it should be “whom,” not “who”—she
shushes me. Don’t get distracted by grammar,

honey. Of course, it’s for you. Always pick up
love when it appears before you.

And so I do.