Though I can’t—I know that—
you all tucked up into a grief-ful,
rage-ful ball. Or maybe you’re on
your feet, pacing or overflowing.

I get that. But I’m a tinkerer of sorts.
I want to pull out my little toolbox
with special devices that might
make it more better,
as my sister and I used to say.

Look—this doohickey fits into
that jagged spot in you, the one where,
yes, the light gets in, but you’re not
wanting that squinty brightness—
the jarring, painful, oh-shit realization
that this is a moment after which things
will never be the same.

And I’m right there with you.

But here, I’ve got this whatsit in
the toolbox that, if you hold the handle
just so, may help walk you to a spot where—
though you may not believe this—
if you open your half-shut eyes
and draw in a deep breath,

you’ll take in the tang of trees turning,
their greening done, preparing for
the let-go. Look. Imbibe their sturdiness,
their whatever-comes-their way-ness,
in this falling time. Isn’t that something?

Let me stand with you as you take all this in.

Honestly, I don’t have much in my toolbox
except these funny devices and two stubby
pencils and a small box of watercolors
with a wee brush. And oh, here are some
scraps of paper I made from pulp and slurry.
Perhaps you might adorn them with color
or words or both—maybe some fallen leaves—
whatever lands on the page.

I know that it’s far from substantial,
and none of this may help. But here’s
one more flimsy thing:

my own trembling hand, which I’m
offering to one of yours, perhaps
the best tool ever, especially when
two of them come together
palm to palm,

even—no, especially—
at a time like this.