by Richard Luftig
First, a blue wash
of sky, then clouds
in the humid dark,
so low they seem
to touch the ground.
This ground of her
he can barely recall
as if he had fallen
asleep one person
only to wake up another.
He remembers how
they would stand there
almost touching in winter
wind, close, so close
as if the frozen earth
beneath their feet
could not be trusted.
And now, all that he has
left is her words that
he keeps like souvenirs
safe and untouched
under glass. He wishes
he had just one more
memory of her before
he gives in to his resolve
to forget. How over
and again he remembers
what she told him
right before he blinked
and she was gone:
Can love be called a miracle
even if it arrives too late?