Visitors

It was decades ago
When the red fox wove
Between the gravestones
In Wildwood Cemetery
As we stood in the silence
Of sunlight before your
Mother’s name cut into stone.
The fox paused, lifted its
Left foreleg and stared—
You said it was a sign.

Far from that cemetery,
In a town beyond
The mountains, we live
In the ripeness of old age
As death breathes
Inside us, around us.
We visit our garden each day,
Touch the strong petals
Of a crimson lily,
Never wanting to let go.