Of death and coping

You slip quietly into bed, as if hoping
I will not awaken, then lie silent while
I wait for the kiss that does not come.

Soon, your breathing grows deep and even.
Your body relaxes against me, and I am grateful
for sleep’s sweet release from the sorrows you carry.

The throttle on your engine of grief is stuck wide open,
so by day you careen through the landmine of memories
that, if faced, would lance your imagined veneer of coping.

But now, with darkness descending, you turn, trailing quilt
and bed sheet, your silhouette a rampart on some distant shore.
My fingers glide across the valley between us as fear rises up.

Outside our window, the wind rattles the branches of the blue spruce.
Within its boughs, a cardinal gently folds a wing over his sleeping mate.