In The Midst of First Month’s Loss

This bruise is no ruse,
her face a rose
unforgotten,
placed along
a path
in a broad canyon,
out of reach like sixteen
year old friends
eleven hundred gray miles
north of wherever you are,
newly uprooted, alone
in this land worshipping cars,
not in the old neighborhood
anymore, ready for catch
or mischief of moment’s
beckoning call,
as a trusted key
in a lock opens us
for more, even more.

My pink lungs and sore breast
miss you this morning
and in the blue ache
I long for any wrong
to sift down in cool soil,
decomposing in time
to fertilize the sad ground
where gladiolas may grow tall
and bloom oh so gaily —
and then a vase shall appear,
perfect,
proportioned
for your altar
of becoming,
this fragrant beacon
of forgiveness
and joy
beaming forth
its rare bounty
of beauty’s
true colors.