As a child it was just a porch, but

She called it her veranda, a word

That seemed as old and comfortable

As the wooden swing she rocked in,

Slats of maple he sawed and shaped

The year lightning struck the old tree

And they couldn't bear to burn it all.

After the funeral, alone on the veranda,

Muted murmuring of mourners inside,

Food shared, drinks lifted without toasts,

I watch the empty swing sway and drift,

Shadow floating in a pool of moonlight;

Li Po, drunk in his boat, disappearing

As he embraced the moon in the water.