All we want:

hair on our arms
to stand up on end
often

a smile that splits the face
immediately after

calm after that
peace and secure
warmth spreading

belly and chest
swelling with a spontaneous
song
sometimes an anthem
sometimes a hum bent
toward one particular ear

unshakeable faith
that if this is the last time
any of this will ever happen
it will only be because
this is the moment
of our last breath

Starved plants visible
in the windows
of Hilda’s house.

Hilda’s in
assisted living now.
It was the neghborhood roaming

in her thin housedress
that brought her family at last
into town from the suburbs.

They’ve moved her closer to them.
They sold her car.  Other cars
I’ve never seen before

are over there all the time.
A lot of stuff’s been carried out
and stashed in a silver van

or loaded into the big
silver pickup.  They come
and pack up and leave.

The leaf stems on her plants
look like threads now.
The stalks are drying; I’ll bet

they’re stiff and would break
if anyone touched them.  No one
seems to have touched them

for a long time.  That seems
a little evil in the middle
of so much urgent care.   

I used to shovel Hilda out
in the winter.  Each of us
took our turn at that.

But now there’s no car
to dig for, no Hilda here
to worry about.  

It’s going to be
a different winter
around here.