(1.)

with the same weightlessness
as a child’s hand
takes flight
out of a car window

sunlight
treads down
the chameleon canopy
of the hazelnut tree

leaf
       by
             leaf

she waltzes
to the ground

only pausing
as to inhabit
whatever remnant
of the morning’s rain she encounters
and dissolve there
into every color

(we all let ourselves be divided
by our grief, and maybe
light itself is no different.)

(2.)

wind paints with light
into view strings of spider silk
as veils upon skeletal alliums

they had cast away
their colors
to coronate death
in purple halos

when she took K. from us.

(after the funeral
you told me
that moths now clung
to your every step

what kindness he possessed
to show you
that even death
couldn’t ever mute your glow.)

(3.)

here it is
the hour
where she
renders
all of us
translucent

where
she dares go
for us

in asking        death

to be
but another
false dormancy
of love.

(and perhaps
our bone marrow
being the color of autumn

is the body’s way
of saying

that sometimes
relinquishing ourselves
is an act of self intimacy

that it is okay
to let these long haunted parts
finally decay.)