My father-in-law is coming to the end.
My husband drives over and stands beneath his bedroom window.
He tells his father about bluebirds in the park, how the cats
are doing, says he remembers when he was seven
and they went sledding on the hill in Acton.
My husband stands beneath the window
head tilted 45 degrees, taking in sky and pane and glass.
When he was a boy he thought his father was Superman.
Now his father has something to say but the words fall apart
before they leave his mouth.
It’s late March. Most of the snow has melted.
My husband stands under the window listening to the last
of his father’s voice, golden crocuses coming up at his feet.