In Country

You moved to a brick
house small enough to keep
everything confined. Planted
vines, ivy entwined with wrought
iron. In bright sun you wore dresses,
afternoons you wrote letters, rain
you put your head between pillows.
I hear your records on a quiet
Thursday, smell tea, the washing
machine. I remember our nights
on your bed, playing cards, setting
plans. You are in France now
with the window open, clop
of walkers passing by, night jasmine,
pinch of late cold, everything alive.