In our mother's garden only a few leaves

are left now and the sun is quivering

through the branches. Happy Birthday,

brother boy. Are you already eight months gone?

We measured days like our mother

measures rice methodically in the dent

of her palm. Last night I dreamt of our childhood

home, filled with spectral figures

only the furniture was vivid, and you.

You'll want to know that the garden has been

kind to us, because the house has not.

From here, by our old swings, how easy it is

to forget and to see you stepping outside to the patio

blinking behind your spectacles,

on the 18th of November, your birthday,

a newspaper dangling from your hands.