A slant of light upon the hill
and in your eyes the gleam of May.
Thankful then you were with me still;

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and, had we known you were so ill,
more grateful yet, on your last day
for slant of light upon the hill

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that evening, as we watched, until
in shock your eyes as dark pools lay
so vacant. You were not with me still.

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Our garden, more than any pill
kept you alive, kept death at bay.
In slanted light upon the hill,

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in all things woven, fine and filled
- not in cloud-heaven, where angels play -
I feel that you are with me still.

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Let poets write, as poets will
of the bright field; of final clay.
A slant of light upon the hill.
Sometimes I feel you’re with me still.