Yesterday I found her early poemsÂ
and the many notes she’d written meÂ
some twenty years ago stored
in a cardboard box on a shelf
in my damp, moldy basement.
The picture she made for my sons
is dusted with mildew, its colors
running in places, the paper bent.
I will save it nonetheless.
Those were our golden years.Â
Two friends set apart in a
rich world of our own making.
Others danced around the edges
but our circle was closed.
Lovers friends distance and dogsÂ
came and went from our lives.
My sons grew to be men.
Now she is gone and I write
my everyday poems in her stead.
