After His Diagnosis

By Margaret Hasse

Weeks after ice-out,
last fall’s leaves
make a pathway
to the lake, radiant blue
and still deathly cold.

I press my hot forehead
to the window,
smudging it. Blow
and the glass steams.
As if looking at a photo
through parchment,
I’m detached,
the way I saw his body
in the CAT scan
from a foggy distance.

I’d like to open the window,
release a wounded bird
nursed to health.
Wiping the glass
with my sleeve
I see white pelicans
wheel and flash in the sky.