(for Rose Varesio)

And though you were waiting,
maybe praying, for her release,

still, now, you want her back.
Not as she was near the end,

but as she was when she was.
And now that she’s vanished

into mystery, incommunicado,
no way to be in touch, you worry.

Did you do all that you could?
Did you say all that you could?

Did you care enough, love enough,
tend closely enough? Listen:

she’s whispering from somewhere
north of your head. Not words.

All that’s left is the love. In fact,
if you head for higher ground,

looking up on a clear night, locate
the dipper pointing toward the

north star. See? There she is,
beaming at you as she did so

often when you weren’t looking,
shining adoration upon you,

and always, always pointing
you toward home.