BY W. DALTON WEIR
I could smell the seasons in your hair;
see the inexperience of time left plain
on the fair milky white moment where
your neck flutters softly again and again.
Deep in the sudden spaces between the trees,
the moss lay bare, softly swallowing birdsongs
beneath us. And I held you gently from the breeze
that brought a faint snowfall of cherry blossoms
haloing down around us in summertime.
Your shoulder was warm and clean under my breath,
I remember holding your fingers, ghostly in mine
until the river had run and found its rest.
I had to write this down when you left me,
So I’d have left one happy, made-up memory.