She is not here

in the garden, in the crunching

of snails,

the careful snip of a rose.

 

She is not here

in my kitchen, puffing out

bags of flour;

no mischief in my measuring out.

 

She is not here

in my study, the place

I planned my retreat

after many long years.

 

She is not here

in my car, the radio

spilling out fresh horrors,

my name sunk again.

 

She is not here

and I cannot answer

all your questions.

It would take a lifetime

to weigh them all.

 

She certainly is not here

slipping into my bed

in the dark of the night,

seeking warmth

as all little lost things do.

 

You cannot know

the evidence on which I based my decision,

the weighted hours I sought

enlightenment

communing with the facts,

the hours I spent

balancing

his words

and his acts.

 

You cannot know.

She is not here.