Tis a gift to be humble
in a white clapboard
kind of way
at the funeral of a father
of a friend.
Plain Jane, with the curl that never stayed behind her ear,
wife of a beloved John,
who liked to tuck it back.
Gone to her maker, on a cold February morning,
when the fog rolled in cross the Mendips
and cloaked his grief from her eyes.
A CARDINAL TOLD ME SO
Spring came in at my window today
and bid me walk a while