A Well

A Well

In my mind, I build a well,
fill it with your favorite things:
fir cones covered in snow,
the reflection of a blue heron on a pond,
songs of warblers, yellow maple leaves,
dappled sunlight landing on a park bench.

From your bed, you watch the window,
ask if we might dissolve in all this rain.
I hold your hand and wonder what this room
will be like without you present.
Will it smell of pine and eucalyptus,
of coffee and cigarettes, of wool and sawdust?

Your gloves on the workbench,
a muddy spade and a netted bag of tulip bulbs,
nails and cut-off pieces of wood that might be repurposed,
your boots on the back steps, parka on the hook in the kitchen,
that well-worn dictionary and the Sunday crossword,
Grandma's bible tucked under your pillow...

Your breath rattles and I keep filling this well.