Heather Ann Schmidt

Upon Witnessing Love

For Ann and Bill Cook

though illness has taken

movement of his body,

(In his mind)

he runs to her

when she is at the
edge of woods,
shivering from mist
collected around the
collar of her coat,

his left hand
covers her

when she cries
because she knows
he cannot feel her touch

or hold books
he collected for 50 years.

He rests things loosely on the space between his
thumb and forefinger and holds them.
I imagine his brush on the canvas.

She shows me his paintings
from 1974,

(before thievery)

and her voice rings out
brightness
flooding the living room
all the way to the bed
where he lay.