Meditation at the End of Winter

We gathered there daily like church
and watched something sacred take place:
we read books out loud, opened windows
to exchange October air, adjusted blankets,
described our walks, how the gingko trees
looked like gold-soaked paint brushes,
leafed through old family albums, asked
if she was comfortable, used a pipette
for morphine and a sponge for water,
noticed the hollows deepening beneath
her eyes the way rain winnows away spring
snow. I’d grown up with my neck bent in pews
hearing whispers of something much bigger,
never glimpsed anything until then.
It was like spending a lifetime reeling in
sunfish then suddenly seeing a whale turn
beneath my boat, its tail taller than a steeple.
My scale changed. Everything is small
enough to disappear. Today I tread along
February’s blue edge, the trees holding
their winter vigil among last year’s fallen
leaves. The tenderness I witnessed during
those final weeks is the only kind of devotion
that’s ever brought me to my knees.