you sing me songs of february summer
and i laugh at the absurdity
because
nothing makes sense anymore
and everything
is a tune
from those long ago years
when we believed
in certainty
still
i smile and i dance
at words
spilled from
wist and sunshine
so ripe with yesterday’s
short season of naiveté
when we were young
and you were golden
and i
was just a rose
.
.
.
if i could choose a memory
to hold in my pocket
it would be that chuckle
the little grin
those mischievous eyes
that always spoke of spirit
and i know
you are here
today
in this room
i know
because the echo
of your heart
has not faded
i know
i need only
just to stop
and to listen
and i will hear
tiny butterfly wings
of flutter and grace
fragile and tenacious all at once
weaving tales of love
and remembrance
into the very air
i breathe you in, i let you go
i breathe you in, i let you go
you’re always there
always there
floating
on the iridescent color
of laughter
.
.
.
.
.
