Forgive the hours spent strolling
On the autumn boulevards,
And the words of ingratitude that I once spoke.
I love the fragrance that wafts
From your memory, heavy as dust—
Your tiny wren like nose that twitches,
Your ripe mouth that is meant to be kissed,
Your voice, soft as the chiming of temple bells,
Your eyes, two deep lakes in the valley of your face—
They melt my being.
Your hair is brown, with the sorrow
Of a lovelorn princess, and your face—
I stare, and tears well up in my eyes.
The white moth of timelessness
Flutters about the old photograph.
I stare, unable to leave the cool light
Of your heavy beauty, and wonder.