(for Dickie)

And why not count every precious day,
even if it adds up to an oh-my-god,
how-can-this-be number?

Why not celebrate the walk down
the trail to the little waterfall’d spot
we call Coup de Grace,

as we have done dozens of times
over the past four decades?
Because the path will be laced

with the particular green of
spring-ripened sword and lady ferns,
along with the wild rhodies

dangling from massive
bushes like tutu’d fairies
dancing in the breeze.

Because we have received
notice this week as we linger
by the sea of two beloveds’

unexpected departures,
making me evermore grateful
for your slower, lurching

self ahead of me on the path,
stopping here and there
to decide whether to take

a photo or six. “Use the film,”
we joke as we position our
phones. “Burn the pixels.”

Because we’re here—you with your
83 years, 3 months and 3 days,
me with my 67 years, 8 months

and 16 days. We may never
pass this way again, as the
old pop song goes.

Did you get a picture?
Excellent. Take another
while we still have the light.