Once when we were walking the path
at the Conte Reserve, you told me
about a friend who had climbed up

a tree far enough that the bear
he had come across while hiking
couldn’t reach him with its paws

that kept swiping at his boots.
You mentioned how your friend
kept looking into the eyes

of the bear, how that experience
forever augmented the man
afterwards. I imagine that upon

your passing you merged with
the light that opened into your
soul and whisked you into whatever
celestial hologram you now
inhabit, but it is a bear for us

to acknowledge your absence,
to come to terms with your death.
We find ourselves holding onto
a branch in a tree, looking down

into a darkness that is wild with
your loss, that paws at us, missing
the mark, but still holds us captive,

treed, until it just tires and ambles
away, to roam about again.
Although we can descend from

the tree to sustain the grace
of having known you, our being so
acutely aware that you are no longer

with us in this life leaves a space
in us of such unremitting
sorrow, it has changed us forever.