Monday, October 6, 2014

Secret Love (poem)

The memory of him
is liquid, seeps to the surface
like a secret spring burbles
through pavement,
the avenue cracks open,
trickles his words, his
scent, his form.

A minute tendril climbs
through this fissure of time,
like the tongue of a tiger lily
reaches for sunshine.
It twists and winds, grows
fatter and fuller, drinks in
the bouquet of her pain.

Someday people will say
she disappeared into the sky
lifted high on the arms
of a gargantuan tree, grown
with time, watered with tears.
Its blooms will fall to earth
in perfumed petals of her love.