The wind chimes usher in

the night snow, soon to turn

to rain; Mother is fading badly

in the nursing home nearby.

My wife’s brother died in our

rear sitting room, after

a long illness on such a night

a few years ago, but much colder,

longer ago than I remember.

Mother remembers, sometimes

with a strange open clarity,

bouts of contentment;

sometimes with eyes of misery,

a snow-distant sadness,

she a child of nighttime sadness,

irresolution, vacant-eye awareness,

unable to walk, or stand,

a weight lifted from wheelchair,

to chair, to bed, my sister’s flowers

a thread of cheerfulness,

lovely sweaters, family blankets,

something of love in the sadness,

as in clouds coming home.

The chimes persist, the snow

a light coating, already with rain;

memory persists, straining for the echo

of the night, the relief of the rain to come.