Without Him

The decanter is filled with chicory blooms (blue, for the sky is her pleasure) while the snapshot turns nigrescent marking rain for the evening weather The ring with which they two had wed lay gilded 'round her finger With her eyes closed oboes quarreled 'gainst the scent of him, that lingered. Her languish comes but once a day She turns to the mackerel sky and sits upon her lonely porch In sight the ibis fly. She remembers sweet the sparkling mint his eyes had held in winter and the rush of tangling wild wars they waged when he did kiss her. As evening falls the grass gives up it's scent from dew to rain and again her footsteps lead her to a solitary grave.