Thunder cracks open
a pounding rain that rinses clean
your new marigolds
and winter’s grime.
You tromp back out for the avocado
while i stay behind
to unload our bags from earlier
and figure out where everything belongs.
I browse your saints and sinners—
Mary and Frida
Jesus and Genet
Buddha and The Book Thief,
“Finest in the marketplace,” you’d say—
and light candles
(though the storm may be clearing),
pressing pretzel crumbs into a napkin at the table,
just one more trace of me here,
as you climb back up the stairs
and i wonder
what else we might be missing.