The Week Before

   
                                                          the week before he died

                                                          he called and asked if I'd read him a poem

                                                          the poem I'd sent in a message the night before

                                                          the one that says, "no one you love is dying"

                                                          we knew it wasn't true

                                                          but I read it as though it was

Twilight

    
                                             ... twilight lingers in the treetops

                                                            memories float

Half Moon

 ... what I've forgotten / what I remember

                              ... half moon in a still blue sky

Image: Polina Washington

Familiar Back Roads

an old song on the radio

takes me down familiar back roads

to where you once lived

but your house has been torn down 

the mailbox is gone / the driveway, overgrown

only the gate remains

across the road 

on the far side of the pond

two swans drift

A Blue Bandana

 

                                          ... wandering in and out of each other's lives

                       ... the years turn into decades

                                                                  ... until one of us is gone, the other left remembering 

                                         ... you lean back on your elbow, blue bandana wrapped around your head

                       ... I sit cross legged in a long cotton dress 

                                                                 ... on the stereo, the sound of silence 

Photographer unknown

Wildflowers

   
                              ... up and down old river road wildflowers waving in the summer wind

Photograph: Marianne Majerus

Nothing But Light

                                                    

                      ... from the meadow to the fence line / I follow the faint trace of our old path                

     

                      ... in place of your absence / nothing but light

Photograph by Alvar Astulez

Things We Choose to Keep

                                       ... things we choose to keep

                                                                                ... the pillow case that bears his scent

                            ... the empty glass still on the nightstand

                                                            ... a brush that holds some wisps of hair / the myth of hope

Image by Polina Washington

Listening to the Rain

   
                                                          ... it's been a year today

                        ... I step into the greenhouse

                                                  ... stand quietly / listen to the rain

Written with Cletis L Stump

Originally posted here: https://latenightfootfalls.tumblr.com/post/63924231967/its-been-a-year-today-i-step-into-the

Photographer unknown

Sleeping In the City

 
                                                        sometimes, I think I'd like to sleep in the city

                                                        our bedroom high above a busy street 

                                                        a steady stream of car lights

                                                        a little grocery on the corner

                                                        another world inside this one, where you and  I

                                                        spend some quiet time, remembering

Photograph: https://twitter.com/cxlvg

Degas and His Dancers

                                                   in a tin once filled with chocolates

                                                   degas and his dancers on the lid

                                                   scissors / sewing needles / spools of thread

                                                   a small orange box that held a pair of earrings

                                                   moonstones set in silver

                                                   and a book of matches

                                                   where I wrote down this memory

      

                      

Painting by Edgar Degas