Above me, while I take my walk,
the November clouds hang
heavy, grey and silent.
Like their rain that does not fall,
my tears are tight in my throat.
I remember your hands – hands I loved –
palms down on the table:
Stubby fingered, wrinkled, ominously grey.
“Poor circulation,” I noted,
but only to myself.
For what we did that last time, we did heedlessly:
Heedless that your heart would stop,
when you went walking.
And now the great grey hands of grief
squeeze my heart
and there is no resuscitation.
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