When he was here with her
the day was a fragrant sheen
of lily-of-the-valley, warm as skin
lolling under June’s bloomed sun.
With lips to her shoulder he
murmured love, momentous
as incantation in strange new language,
words like tiny birds freed from other worlds.
She sees them embracing at water’s edge,
fingers entwined, fledgling roots nourishing
roots they thought could never separate.
But there was no partaking of night’s
indigo power nor the incarnadine of daybreak.
They somehow got lost at the horizon, yet
spoke here and there like ghosts
through want and need.
In time life was built of something else,
they grew up, grew resolute, older, old.
But even now she hears his voice of honey,
words as wings brushing against bare shoulder,
recalls water and wind tasting of salt, amber and him,
that time a relief, a reckoning-
back then, when he was here, she was his
and they became crystalline in the passing light