Beginning again,  like children just learning how–
Heads tilt to squint and consider.
Will there be more grace arriving?
The bridge of the moment sways as we speak.

I like your look of tenderness.
Light feels delicious,  a place that smells of cedar.
Beeswax,  clementines,  papier-mache
And all of the wonderful things we made!

I'm awake with mirth and laughter– I'm talking.
Shiva grins. "Talk to the hands."
Can I make that light permanent?
I am living for the last time.

She will write another birthday sonnet:
the poet is not dead.