That spring, a cold one, not enough
the trees bloomed on St. Mark's
like reborn, slumming angels,
petals blowing in drifts
like the snow we never had that winter,
like the year before
and the year before
and the year you died
when I could not see them
for what they were.
Your ashes, long scattered,
carried by soles and skin and air
through the five boroughs, Times Square,
the summer fire updrafts of L.A.,
ride the high atmospheric winds
across the world on new wings
or form the core of raindrops, ice crystals, cloud.
Outside: a warm October drizzle,
just tinged with color, impossible
to think that it would ever snow
that you would ever become
just a memory,
a film of dust, rain-streaked.
© Lee Kottner 2010