She loves flowers, he collect rocks
smooth stones really,
with odd shapes and round.
Once having killed the only plants he ever cared for
this is his way of remembering
moments.
The flowers…
they were
African Violets
they grew fat, big, and purple
the green leaves
a reminder of a instinctual song that once faded away
sung quietly with samba rustling along with the story
of the two of them, swaying with the beat
She brought the music back
he was the drum she the melody
Intermittent, moody one moment
Seemingly careless
to his longing in her way
the next
He never knows what she is thinking
she says she doesn’t have the words
to say what she would have to say
Makes him wonder
just how foolish he can
feel…how crazy he has become for love.
Then the next moment is magic
and her glance tells him everything
he could ever wish to know
Soft, easy words float
from her mouth
with the hint of her kiss
the period of every sentence.
Truth, though never absolute,
is felt more than heard
waves of her force echo
long after her last word
vibrates off into infinity.
Are their truths so different?
he muses:
like lilies and stones
gathered in a garden
arranged, zen-like
to create a serenity
they may never know
for more than
a moment…
But the keepsakes
of their moments
rest easy in his heart
arranged by shape, sound
or feelings.
interesting he notes
they seem to be weightless
until he holds them separately
Shifting in a spiral
going up and down
each pass familiar
just with a different
view
Ah, here’s the one
when they first met
talisman of wonder
he carries it in his pocket.
precious, warm, close to his body
And he pictures white
lilies, lots of white lilies
surrounding a single thought
captured but a breath away from her lips
he knows there are many realities,
but this is
the one
where he fully lives.
