She looks for the afternoon sun
to balance upon the crest
of it’s evening glow.
The horizon slipping
into hues of autumn leaves,
and painted feather clouds
drifting across heaven’s canvas.
She rests

. . . . on the weathered deck,
head thrown back
feeling the last kiss of the sun
and the passing breeze, as it
fondles her slender arms,
Her old friend, loyal at her side.
He waits

. . . . chin resting heedfully
upon her slippered foot.
Sharing time within each reality,
the waning of the day, and
the silence left to the night.
She listens raptly to the hush.
She rises

. . . . to live the nameless
and uncharted depths of Always
that permeates the walls, framed
about her, and reaching for air
she unfolds the paint-stained
jeans and formless sweat shirt
He left

. . . . tossed in the corner.
Each corner lives with the thought
of his yesterday, erased from his tomorrow.
Naked in front of the glass,
she slips into his jeans, spellbound,
pulling his shirt over her head.
She holds

. . . . the softness to her cheek,
and draws in the scent of his love,
now caressing her ravished heart.
His arms, his weight anoints
the body she gives to memory.
Her hand upon an empty pillow.
She cries

. . . . his name to the void,
the pit left after the storm.
When all have left, she remains
alone with only the image of...what?
“Here, boy,” she calls,
giving her only smile to an old friend.
He loves

. . . . the old slipper he carries.
At the foot of the bed he rests his chin.
He listens to her cry. Not stirring
they wait for the night to settle,
and for the dimness of mind to begin,
Breathing the scent of the love
He left.


jeanne rene 8/03