This morning an old-growth spirit

left us for another pasture,

another growing place, somewhere

where he can find his no-stress home.

I put in enough toast (enough?),

but panicked when I could not find

the marmalade for Bill.

He loved the texture of that jam,

the fully-formed bitter rinds drowned

in an infinity of sweet, thick confection

of candied ochre elements, jitterbugging

on the boundary between salt and umami

on his tongue. I wonder—

wonder if there is a spot for real

English-style orange marmalade in heaven

where he can again enjoy this un-complex

pleasure of a morning—a morning

of newness, of first-times, a regenerated

pain-free existence marked by this

simple pleasure of toast and jam.