i've never bought her flowers,
like the bright ones at funerals blankly standing.
i've picked the ones she lay on
and saved them in old smelling books i'll never read,
and i look for her flame to burn them all.
standing in the sun i look at nothing,
reaching my hand for the hollow heavy moon.
blank pages in a book i once hoped held many tales,
childlike growing leaves
never to see the branch,
growing for the mad sun.

no flowers in the winter

she once said she was in pieces and i told her
it was okay. i'll be in pieces too
and i will put them all together,
and if one
or two get mixed up in the puzzle,
i will carry her piece with me always.
to hold on to
when the branches lose their skin.
and when the sun
will have burnt my fingers,
i will not let the wind brake my bones.
i wish for no bright flowers,
i wish for those old books,
whose pages still carry breath.
they now smell of her.

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