A week past the 29th anniversary of your death
I read Seamus Heaney’s poem about the kite, and
my first thought is to show it to you.

So I stumble again 
into the hole
death leaves, 
unfillable.

This dim morning 
of a day that promises 
to be beautiful
without your presence
except for this faint ache
because you loved kites,
their unpredictable dialog
with the wind 
transmitted to your hand.

That hand gone
and gone again
each time 
I reach for it.