I.
I sit hopelessly in my prized
folding chair. The sun
brings out my freckles
and the dry grass crinkles
between my sandaled toes.
We all ponder the wiles of
youth (and lost youth).
Her honeyed curls promenade
‘round the casket. She has never
left us. We can only smile.
II.
I stand this time. The wind
cuts at my face. I take shelter
from its touch in the warmth
of another. My toes, clumsy,
ache in my boots.
A hasty remembrance for
a lengthy existence. It is
a shame we think as much,
yet she was as cold as her corpse
and never so pretty.
Never will I say
who I loved more.
