How fortunate that I’m the saving kind
who finds some value in each bit of fluff,
the stuff of which our days were made through years
of sharing thoughts and dreams and finding joy.
Inconsequential be the myriad flow
of images and memories of our past,
yet precious to me now, this trivia
that paints my days in color once again.
The orchid that you pinned upon my shoulder
faded from its vivid purple glow
to palest lavender and like old lace
is frayed of petal, held in place by but
a strip of tape and my determination
not to lose more of you than I must.
Though time erodes material things we treasure,
it can’t erase what’s written on the soul.
The silly poem you wrote, and you no poet,
that made me laugh. Your sheepish grin that charmed
and caught me fast in knowing that at last
I’d found the one for whom I’d waited long,
through all the measured dance of hopeful youth
whose truth quicksilver flowed about the hearts
that recognized in each, the other’s worth
and grasping, held on tight, to paradise.
Here’s your tweed jacket hanging on the hook,
so I can breathe, on lonely days, the scent
I knew so well, a sort of spiciness
that lingers in the woven folds of wool.
And yes, sometimes I speak a word or two,
hoping that perhaps somehow you hear
and knowing that one day there’ll be an answer.
Meanwhile, to bridge the gap, such things must serve.
© Mary Lou Healy, 2016