Dear Mathilde: April 1, 2020

Dear Mathilde:

Leaned up against

a willow that’s old and filtering light

somewhere out there still

in that old life we held papery hands.

Love, you sung, to the monarchs

with the muscular

wings, love to the gumshoe

crows who saw

us come, watched you

go. Love, that chrome cold evening,

your slithered disappearance

was masterful. My traceless

loss. I’ll keep it up in the scraggly woods

but what will you do. What

will the beautiful

you do, like a moth on the tree

no one noticed. The dry leaves, the spring

that a moth melts into. What

should we make of that.