FORSYTHIA

He was there, at the end
of the passage, his door shut,
eyes closed. On our first visit
we found this: the old man,
a baker, now crust, unable
to weep for his dead wife,
sat in the room where
the air was tongue-thick
and dark as a closed mouth.
No customers came, no family;
there weren’t cakes
for celebration or sale.

In time he said something to us
but in the dark: his words cracked
and crumbled, scattered
from the slightest breath
into the darker corners.

Then, when we came: the door
ajar, he mumbled into the darkened gap.
Then, sometime later: we saw
a yellow light that spread
from door lintel to the floor
of his room. He was there,
looking out to the forsythia
spreading its yellow light
beyond the walls. He spoke,
each word intent for branch
and for flower.