Wynne Morrison

You are my same age. Your children are my
children's friends. We wonder what to tell
the kids, wanting to keep them feeling safe
but knowing life is not. Silent by your bed,
your wife tries to track the days, her
hand nearly as pale as yours she clutches.
You are on our minds but so far from us.
I trail my daughter slowly through the store,
crowds rushing past wherever they are going.
The world blurs. She holds up a book, so close
it's hard for me to see, her smile as bright
as any other day. At a distance all
grows clear—the bare beauty of leafless trees
rising in grey lines along the mountainside.