LOUWBRE

A year ago today you died, 
your cup of tea on the end table until 
milk-film curdled on the surface.               

We’d talk the night down past the filter, 
till dawn birds brightened in the trees 
and an easy wind threw its arm around my
shoulders. 
                It’s evening now—  
blues and trees black in the low light, 
their leaves shiver in the May-warm breeze. 
I let the tea steep until it’s dark, 
until stars sharpen out of the western sky.