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Our Words Have All Been Said

My news is fluff from the cottonwood:
it floats into the courtyard,
swirls around her head,
spirals to the rooftop…gone.

“Josh has gone to camp this week.“
Surprise, although I’ve told her many times.
“Erika—our daughter—will visit us in August.”
“What’s that green?”  “A hose. To water plants with.”

Yesterday has never been; tomorrow
is the rosebud that needs persistent watering.
“Will we go to church again?”
“Tomorrow, dear.”  She nods, relieved.

Frazzled clouds drift east
across a sea-blue sky.  A robin
flits into a bush.  She laughs.
“But will we ever go to church again?”

Our words have all been said
so side by side we sit,
gently hug and squeeze and smile
and watch the fraying clouds float by.

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Randy Minnich is a retired research chemist and chemistry professor. He now focuses on writing, environmental issues, and grandchildren. He is a member of the Squirrel Hill Poetry Workshop and has published two books, Wildness in a Small Place and Pavlov's Cats: Their Story. His poetry has appeared in Main Street Rag, Pearl, U.S. 1 Worksheets, Blueline, and other publications. He seems to be writing more about aging, these days, and suspects it's because his friends are getting old.