(In memory of Sonya Hunter,
July 30, 1941 –Feb. 17, 2026)

On my way down H Street to exercise
on a rainy winter morning, my mind
conjures summer mornings in my backyard,
the heat to come lingering in the still sky,
yoga mats spread beneath the big sycamore tree,
several of us ladies flowing into a forward fold,
then rising, arms overhead, to greet the day.

You came faithfully every time. Until you couldn’t.

Like the day when you said—so unlike you,
without explanation—that you could no longer
take care of my cats, as we had long done
for each other when we traveled.

Only with benefit of hindsight did I come
to understand that some part of you
had begun to realize—though you did not
have words for it—that this was the beginning
of the slipping away.

And much later, when a group of your friends
and I moved through your house, gathering
what you needed to move north near your sister,
we all wept.

I have missed your neighborliness ever since.

Today, after getting the call from your sister,
I drive and sigh, wishing you roses,
the bold Mr. Lincolns from your backyard
across the street, a bumper summer crop
for nearly five decades.

A profusion of roses, an explosion of deep
crimson long stems interspersed with smaller
pink and whites, several of the soft yellows,
a literal bucket full, which, on more than one
occasion, I came home to find on my porch,
their fulsome blooms grinning at me,

which, with all my love, all my thanks,
are what I send you in the after,
wishing you well on your journey.