Thursday, April 30, 2015

The Bequest

We dress in the fabric of the people around us
Checkered prints of smiles and humor, caring
Gifts, not heavy, yet hard to hold
Then they are gone, the absence surreal

Denied our eyes, our ears,
We reach through memory
For a familiar laugh, smile, or touch
Like grasping for mist that cannot be held

The evening breeze, cool, shifting shape
Touches us as if someone is there
Yet a glance yields only gray quiet
We cannot touch, but still know

No estate to bequeath, just a smile,
Never mine, never yours,
Make a place for it, as if coaxing a bird to sit on your palm
That it will not dissipate like morning fog
Make a place for it, as they made a place
So it will stay

© Maria Amodei 2015