Between lush manicured lawns
and dense sheared hedges I walk   
slowly           up the curved path
to the wall near the relief sculpture
tall as a juniper tree Moses on the Mount.

I step into the Garden of Canaan,
no Eden in its beginning
My husband here at eternal rest
those words of finality suffocating me
then once again I read beloved,

devoted husband and father
etched on the brass plaque of his tomb,
my fingertips press kisses on the letters
hot from a blistering sun high overhead,
I whisper I love you                                      

                                             I love you

Sitting on a small marble bench, I read softly
Yehuda Amichai’s poem, ‘A Man in His Life’
He doesn’t have seasons enough
to have a season for every purpose. 
Ecclesiastes was wrong about that. . .

I murmur poetry I wrote
as my husband lay ill and I gave care
throughout long days and nights
hoping that in my days of grief I can weave
the threads of my tapestry, create my own design,

new landscapes thrive in a parallel universe. . .
my throat catches
my eyes mist over
but I am not weeping
as last year and the year before.

A gentle voice is speaking to me
whispering thoughts, blending words
I listen     I hear