TO MEMORY

Do I miss her? Oh sure,
sometimes. Those were
the best and worst of times,
a Dickens of a time.

She wouldn’t get that
and there it is. That was
the divide I could never
cross, no matter how high

we flew. Hell, yes, I miss her.
I miss her when fireflies
spell our names in the hollows
of a soft Spring night.

Uncork the wine; I’ll drink
my solitary toast to memory.

Stephen Brooke ©2006

As winter gives way to spring, it is time both to harvest from the past and to plant for the future.