Do You Remember?

Do you remember that day: the long light and the shadows?

We squeezed juice from the sun and sipped it like nectar.

We had both lost someone dear and would never hold their hands again so we held each other’s.

There was a snake absorbing heat on the path and we stepped over its gleaming body like a threshold, like a prayer.

You told me a secret when I asked for one and I believed you; I still do.

Strands of your wet hair made a glyph on the shower wall that I read like a prophecy. It came true.

I made you dinner with the little I had and you said it was good and it was. You read to me in bed.

You cried without sound while I sang you a song that wasn’t meant to be sad; you framed me like a painting between your hands.

Venus was in descent, invisible now in the night sky, but we didn’t care. We looked up anyway.

The Icelandic poppies were blooming early in my window box on the morning you left. They bobbed like elegant ladies in parachute skirts: yellow, white, coral, ephemeral.

We drank our tea in silence. The mist rose all around us like the steam from our cups. We watched those dancing flowers and we smiled.