Per­ci­val comes. If I pre­tend he is not here
He grows larg­er in the barn, fill­ing all the shad­ows,
And then I can­not go in to feed the cows

And I hear those who give milk cry­ing for milk
And I see their hearts, like children’s palms,
Open­ing and clos­ing in the gar­den. Even in win­ter

I keep the gar­den. And Per­ci­val, who nev­er looks
At flow­ers, taps his fin­gers on the water
That has frozen in buck­ets in the barn.

I hear that tap­ping. Even as I heard him com­ing,
Last night through my sleep, through the snow,
His heavy black coat drop­ping like wings.

-Brig­it Pegeen Kel­ly