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A Conversation with Closure
By Brenda Bilodeau

At their own humble pace
flowers unfold at your grave.
I saw them rolling, rich and honeyed.

I read between the lines, your epigraph,
to bring the silence of the pretty it is;
and listen in my ear a liquid voice, as
you kiss the root-- bringing trees to a
lustful sway.

I begin to lace the sky with our mother's pearls,
not watching as they glisten unpretentiously.

I still have so many questions, Sarah:

Did I tell you that no one called,
but they wished you well?

Do the stars lay above you,
observing as you sleep beneath the brush?

Is it remembering our like
of picking up a favorite book for the very first time?

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Document last modified on: 09/07/1999

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