My sister says she picks up the phone--
some days, some nights--
is about to call our mother
before she remembers
the long trip to the far cemetery
where Mom rests among gravestones
and Eastern Long Island pines.
Without glancing at it,
I’m hyperaware of the window
at my right at night
as I try to sleep--
the dark rectangular box,
the breeze-breath of the curtain,
the evergreen scent on the wind
being so near.