Maybe much as his fingertips once read the fine print of airy messages, she now proceeds with poise and self-possession, never again looking back the way she came. She misses him, yet refuses to be pulled in by grief’s pliable eye, and finds in each morning’s heart a home. Where is he now? some ask. Somewhere fluid and quick, not part of the sadness that sings in her, wrapped in knotted twine. He is part of night’s never-ending hum; the blueness, the newness, the spell of an endless summertime.
Saturday, March 19, 2016
Perhaps sprawled in sunshine he dissolves, pours free of his shape. Sliding along her back and legs he fills her with the warmth of a shadow unmoored. Brief kiss, rough and real against her cheek he becomes one with all joy and ease, the one within her arms. He is the best of what is left for her: a little honey, a little sun.