Not Monet’s Giverny
In our snow globe of good-byes we leave
cities burning, arguments still on fire.
We do not touch but force ourselves
into pockets and gloves.
Winter stumbles on: questions
Glass bridge of exits, cracked runway lights
flared blue and gold.
We travel through forlorn gates
the size of breadbaskets
do not stop for sweets or tea.
On the last day of this life
we will not live together
we steer north of Paris
to observe the descendants of lily pads,
abandoned in the gardens of Giverny.
Even now— decades on, the same
Empty beds where the iris had lived;
white stones to an ashen sky.
And a man and a woman struck numb.