Musings #53


for Jo

On its winter way west, the sun

inches its way up the aisle,

striking your framed photograph

through stained glass.

Your face lit up like the moment

I ran out of answers, and we could,

at last, begin.

Your face the one I saw speaking

inside of me – until I could see,

hear, myself.

Afterward, I stand outside

and let go my hold of ribbon –

balloon aloft and adrift

in a bruised-purple dusk.