Within the unfolding
flowers, I breathe
a resonant scent
which rises to me
like an unexpected kiss.
Yesterday, I found,
tucked in a volume
of Akhmatova,
a note you wrote
to me years ago.
As most of life,
the matter was trivial,
an acknowledgment
of something I did
which mattered to you.
Your words opened to me
as a final fall flower
opens into the frost,
a last flourish of hope
at winter’s charred door.
We rarely know
how we are touched,
or how much time
will pass us by
before we even notice:
beauty pulses about us
nearby like butterflies;
and within these spaces
of love, we grow into
our truer hearts.
(November 2, 2014)
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