w h a t | r e m a i n s

This is an updated version of my poem 
"What Remains," originally published 
in tinfoildresses poetry journal, sp 09.

Mid-November melts like the edges of spring,

calling back the wasted days we lost together:

specks of dust caught in the Santa Ana winds.

My foolish hands didn’t reach out to skim

the surface of your face, gently touching the still

soft stubble tinted red from late autumn sun.

I would like to touch you now, but we’ve been

unrecognizably replaced--cheeks and hands

already spoken for by this grown up version of us.

Outside in our turtlenecks, we tend to our fading

garden of peppers and pumpkins. We call for

the dog and tie our shoelaces while august flecks

of gold and rust fall piece by piece from the trees.

I water the garden and see you proudly pocket the last

orange and yellow pepper. Everything we’ve planted

has survived. The sun droops downward in the sky.

I pause to watch half of it disappear. What remains

seems brighter.  I am happy until I notice you turned to go.

The moment has passed and I am holding a watering can

and not your face. I call your name and tell you I need you.

You smirk.  I have leaves in my hair. I laugh and you tell me

 I am beautiful. Before I can object, you kiss my forehead

 and I believe you. I smile as your fingers brush dead leaves

from my hair. We watch them fall on purpose, landing

at my feet like paper airplanes made by the future

daughter we always meant to have.