It’s hard to
believe how fast her sun rose and set,
the sultry wink and affirmative nod,
a flower that blooms once in a generation
and dies.
Her portrait hangs on a tree in a yard
that is forever autumn,
death in passion that flames so quickly
and fades
because we are blind and know not what we
do.
The hour of my visitation was no longer
than the space between the coming and going
of a breath.
Comet West, a harbinger, winked with its
cold fire
and tried to trace my path in the stars,
but I wasn’t a wise man in that year of
our Lord.
Always surrender your heart for good
when the universe winks and the flirtation
grows long
lest a desert of scrub cactus unroll at
your feet,
the only garden that is tilled being the
one
that blossoms in the memory from time to
bygone time.
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