My friend, at sixty-two,
lost her father,
which is what we say
when someone
we love has died.
“I am alone now,” she said.
“I am an orphan.”
In her garden, the daffodils
burst from the soil early
this year, their shoots
green and firm. On her knees,
she clears last year’s leaves away,
her breath a wisp of light.

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