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| juliane Monari |
Left Behind
She left me with her roses, azaleas, garden
tools and plastic bags of plant food.
But she forgot to take our times at the lake,
sailing through sunsets in the summer,
trying to make it home before dark.
And she forgot to take the smell of her
perfume on a silk scarf and the sound
of her voice when she said my name.
She left all the stained-glass windows
she made, her favorite books on a shelf
and years of greeting cards from me she
had saved in a shoebox in the closet.
But she forgot to take her smile, the way
she always said she loved me, and the
color of her eyes.
She left her clothes, her garden, recipes,
and boxes of jewelry in dresser drawers.
But she forgot to take the bottle of wine
we were saving for a special occasion.
She forgot to take our evenings watching
movies, the softness of her hair and our
son whom she loved so well.
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| William Ogden Haynes |
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