I thought this was good :) I stood on the porch tonight— which way do we face to talk to the dead? I thought of the new rose, and went out over the

I thought this was good :) I stood on the porch tonight— which way do we face to talk to the dead? I thought of the new rose, and went out over the grey lawn— things really have no color at night. I descended the stone steps, as if to the place where one speaks to the dead. The rose stood half-uncurled, glowing white in the black air. Later I remembered your birthday. You would have been ninety and getting roses from me. Are the dead there if we do not speak to them? When I came to see you you were always sitting quietly in the chair, not knitting, because of the arthritis, not reading, because of the blindness, just sitting. I never knew how you did it or what you were thinking. Now I sometimes sit on the porch, waiting, trying to feel you there like the color of the flowers in the dark