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.
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