Sometimes, my neighbor wanders 
through my gate, knocks on my door. 

We drink tea and talk about loneliness. 
We drink wine and get drunk. He’ll bring 

up his dead mother and drop his head 
into his folded arms on my table. 

I’ll listen to him cry. I’ll think of my mother 
and father, my sister and brother—all dead. 

Six years have passed since my wife died giving 
birth to our daughter. And my daughter—

swept away by a river last spring. I’ll think 
about how I’ve never wept for any of them 

and drink more wine until it, too, is gone. 
But today, only the wind swings my gate. 

Han Shan and a few other poets (also dead) 
are the only voices who speak to me. Snow 

weighs heavily on the white pine outside 
my window. Perched on a sagging branch 

is a cardinal. He sings for the seed I toss 
each morning on the encrusted ground. 

My lungs balloon. My exhale slow. I grab 
the old Maxwell House can and go to him. 

Bio: Joshua Michael Stewart