As I remember his visage, tea roses leap from my stomach.
Medium-regulation haircut, coffee, like his stand-still eyes.
Callused, frank hands touch mine.
Like an evergreen, I shall be cut down by such hands.
They have killed, hardened, cracked, endured.
They will nourish and soften.
They will tickle his daughter’s tiny pink feet, through her slippers.
They will hold other hands.
He would tell me beautiful things, and I would tell him he was crazy
He’d ask why, and I’d say, “Smell the grassy, earthy air in the spring.
Taste the lilac and moss. Stand under the shade of an oak,
and then say to me there is a greater beauty.”
Oh, how I miss him!
Or… those pale pink roses leaping from my stomach.