Both hearts broke

She stood at the top of the stairs
clutching the newel-post, knees sagging.
Her moan brought me running: just then
Dad came in the front door past
the foot of the stairs carrying
groceries. She stretched out her arms
past me, to him, weeping. He looked up
for a moment then carried on to the kitchen
eyes down muttering “Got to put things away”.

When I reached up to her, she pushed me away
with the vehement weakness of an invalid,
saying “It was him I wanted”.

Figure of St. Francis in Bronze

He stands on a plinth of broken marble
his hands held outwards,
cupping an intangible gift.
Thin streams trickle from the moss
under his feet into a fountain basin,
his generosity overflows into a gutter
from which animals can drink –
like the brindled dog that drank from your hands
filled with water from a city fountain
that sultry night of chattering starlings
when I first knew your touch
and grateful, shivering,
took what is more important than water
gained strength to return love
like a spring unstopped,
a flow, soaking,
swelling seed and bud
into mortal grass and flowers.