Standing at the kitchen sink,
I see out of my eye’s corner
the expiration date on the plastic lid:
the month and day of my father’s birth.
A year has passed since he breathed his last.
I held his hand and spoke and sang,
watching the mystery of his mouth and chest
until the rhythm suddenly ceased.
Each respiration is habitual gift,
usually unnoticed until gone ...
then there is only awe,
then there is only awe.