Bainbridge Island, Halloween 2014

(for Georgann)

•••

He sees the path in the wall of green
before I do, veers onto it, and at
the other end of the leash, I say:
She takes you here, doesn’t she?

Or perhaps it’s the other way around
as I follow the shaggy wag of the aging
blond boy whose paws have already
picked up detritus of the woods,
the leavings of seasons underfoot,
foliage that has let go and drifted groundward
as it does every day in the grand forest.

In a few hours little ghouls and superheroes
will take over this island, making their rounds,
knocking on doors, but here, now,
the only costumed one is me, the visitor
from a dry land masquerading
as one of the rain people in a plum coat.

Mushrooms display their jaunty caps,
frilly mosses wear their everyday frocks,
brightening the wet wood they cling to.
Though some trees still sport dulled yellows
and crimsons, I inhale green with every step.

I wish she was walking with us,
though her big dog does a fine job showing
me the way. Today is a down day after
yesterday’s up day. This is how it goes.

For every up there is a down.
After preparing a place for me, fetching
me home to her island, she sleeps
in her bed plump with pillows
under the soft duvet, the small gray cat
at her feet, the window opened just enough
to let in the green and the patter of rain—
her favorite sound in all the world.

She continues to teach me patience,
about resting when the body can’t continue,
about bearing illness with grace,
about love in the form of a big
blond dog on the floor by her bed,
his feet clean and dry, sound asleep,
waiting for whatever comes next.