Torn diplomas of my vows should tell me just how close I was. We are close strangers leaning into dusk when I drop off a bag with prescriptions and a jug of cranberry juice, a tin of homemade almond bark. Your house, like mine, its rooms all used, simple as a hobby shop where living is allowable. Your joys in slumped petunia leaves and a porch light that flickers to the beat of laughter's busy mandolin. I wanted to save you steps and crowds this time of night.
Illness is uncomfortable.
Your sighs of thanks in gentle wrinkles under eyes. The room is golden foliage now, tinged with winter's dusty green. Birds beep on a CD, making summer of coming snow. I hug you once. The moon peaks through gray tissue fog.