You remember a mockingbird sitting
atop bare dying elm branches, singing
every morning, bouncing on deadwood,
limb to limb, faithful like morning sun.

You remember when she left, denial
fell into familiar instinctive patterns:
you delivered flowers, bouquets
of all sizes as if those gestures could
merge with your desperate prayers to save
illusions of happiness, the pretense
that shock and faith make possible.

You remember faint evening breezes
restoring sense as you sat on the porch
seeing the dying elm bare before you.