Art Credit: Elizabeth Fraser
when she goes away
July slips into August
he remains alone
dreamless in an empty bed
under the fullest of moons
.
morning is birdsong
silence in the afternoon
twilight advances
.
night on green mountain
he imagines her ocean
pours coffee and waits
.
another clear sky
ocean air washes inland
distance vanishes
her garden fountain singing
the bed no longer empty
There’s no words, Mr. L., beyond what you just said. Thank you for this.
Ron, I take it you are experiencing your annual grass widowerhood. Never mind, I’m sure she misses you too.