On the Table

I have stopped sending you flowers at this time of year
for you do not need it anymore, and I obliged.

We are past the color of roses, and their artful packaging
of rosemaries, sweet peas and pansies.

We are past the greeting cards, love notes,
and love letters written by hand.

We know love better than all these,
though we kept the night creams and day creams

and that mirror where we always see yesterday
drifting farther from us.

I still see my beautiful bride, whose eyes caught mine,
and whose laughter will haunt me in my loneliness.

Hold my hands, please, and promise not to let go
of memories, of who I am to you, of who you are to me

and everything else in between, for we will never be
just a photograph of two people on the table.

Undeniably

You still could not figure out how I found the path again through this

Visual confusion  of green leaves, brown sticks, and open spaces.

 

You wondered, did you ever leave a glow on the broken branches, 

or your scent lingering, afloat in the air, like a trail?

 

Or was there a code in the chirping of birds or a signal from sunlight

Breaking through the canopy, you, lit up from head to toe?

 

You wondered still if ever I envisioned you a fairy, rising from a stream

Flowing quietly, slowly, and you emerging wet, mysterious and sensual?

 

Let my fingers touch your lips, enough of your wondering,

For the sensations you left in this body, this skin, and these lips

 

Are memories swirling in my pool of recall, for I wanted to catch

Again those  eyes where delight once undeniably dwelt.