PERFECT

We walked a path of pine needles,
bronzed by the mist, from his house
to the Grand River. Nothing was so quiet
as the boat drifted on slow water. We made
no effort. Sky and clouds lay at the gunwales,
and herons lifted with wisps of morning fog
as we drew near. I told him the dream
I had years before in which he left by a plane
that taxied close to our boyhood home;
I watched him board and fly away.

In his last days he lies in the bed,
needed things near, and tells me
that colors—he tries to describe them
and can’t say if he dreams—pool deeply
around him. They are perfect, he says.
They buoy him among walls, clock,
bedside table, and curtain as I lean
to kiss him and leave the room.