For Franette

What I remember is an April morning
after the rains, a bitter, clear sky, and you
in your red parka tramping through the marsh

at Molera, while a hundred yards behind,
collar turned, gloves on, I tried to keep up,
following your white hair bright as any flame

in that cold light, when suddenly six Canada geese
swooped in from the levee behind,
rising over and dropping down so close

I could hear the whirr of each wing stroke,
almost touch their feathered underbellies overhead
as they honked and sailed toward you

and your raised hand. I stood there
for a moment until they disappeared beyond
the trees, then walked your way through the muck.

But nine years later I still remember this,
how earlier I had begrudged your penchant
for such treks, until I drew close,

and you merely winked. This, your old eyes glimmered,
is what you would have missed. Now what do you think?