There’s the repaired swivel chair
on the patio still able
to hold your weight,

and there’s the morning breeze
brushing past your cheek,

and there’s the presence
of the Japanese maple
transplanted long ago
from your father’s backyard.

Now you’re getting
used to things that will not
be happening again—

from now on never to look
into a pair of eyes
saying, Let’s go somewhere
and take off our clothes;

never again to feel you’ve
nailed the proud turn
of the tango.

Now you almost love
how you’ve been one
of many stones tumbled
along by the river of time.

You’re about to say
you’ve finally learned
to roll with it all,
but that would be false.

It’s okay that there’s no word
for the pleasure
of watching that chipmunk

run to the toe of your shoe,
then stop, blink,
and go on with its day.

You think about how a life
is made of a million nows,
and you feel quite sure

there’s no way
your father’s dying
miserably in a hospital bed

would have cancelled out
the best moments
of his time alive.

Now there’s the breeze again,
a little warmer, stirring
the leaves of his tree.