Rises into the thin April night,
leaving the empty house by its stack
as life leaves the body at death—
open a window, some cultures do,
to set free the spirit—makes sense to me,
standing in moonlight after building a fire,
last of the season, I'm thinking,
watching wood smoke rise toward heaven,
but what do I know, having seen it myself,
first with my daughter, then with my mother,
dead in my arms, holding them as they cooled,
and still I haven't a clue.
