The smell of rain from my window
tried to prepare me for your death.
It tried to tell me that rain clouds
have become too heavy to carry your name.
Had I turned down the TV,
perhaps read a book instead,
I would have sensed the silence of birds
circling at dusk in mourning.
That following day
I dreamt of your smiling face.
I’d like to think you met my father
and laughed at one of his silly jokes.