By Jennifer Alia Wittman
It is seven days later,
together with just myself this time,
alone among 28 flowerbeds, 9 stone
archways, 12 seats in shade and sun,
1011 trees in wood, 31 docents,
45 titles in fiction and non
And six small dogs dead,
buried atop a mossy mound.
Jules and Toto, Mimi and Miza
and two other, unrelated little ones.
To all I bow toward the earth and
And then there is the home of her soul.
Third floor back corner left, facing east,
in bed with paper and pen, writing her life,
as I tend my tender missing of him,
my soul’s home, across an ocean,
closer still and farther from,
possibly as alone as I,
yet in the company of the One.
* Jennifer Alia Wittman resides in the part of the Berkshires that falls into New York State.