yet, never alone, the company
of those who flicker candle-flames
always keep me entertained
with wishing you were here.
Archive for May 4, 1993
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no sleight of hand by any season
could console me for the loss of your smile
of girlish enthusiasm if a trick of my own
has caused you some fleeting delight.
I still write you
little poems of little consequence,
yet long for a messenger
– be it bird or boy –
to send them to you, fresh from my hand
a thousand times a day.
The winds of last night
have blown the limbs from trees,
torn the leaves from branches,
and scattered them on the sidewalks
like dull confetti and still streamers.
The beauty is in the destruction;
the tree trimming of clouds breath,
shaking every blade of grass,
stripping the dew away
like pearls silently falling from a string.
