You are not gone. We will turn
around and expect
to see you, a floral huddle, fragile
and immense as an old barn
that belongs and shelters.
We feel your essence fill the house; an exhalation,
quickening us.
The dent in your cushion and the creak
of your chair testify –
no, you are not gone.
19/07/02
No comments:
Post a Comment