At the One of Solid Silk
Her unexpected death
two weeks ago
left him a widower
at twenty-five.
As night falls, as he has
at every dusk since she died,
he ghost-walks to her clothes
in the closet. He fingers
each of her blouses, lingering
at the one of solid silk,
a print of vivid, ripened apricots
lifelike as a detailed photograph
fit for framing, each apricot
crowned with drops of dew,
laden with her scent,
the blouse she wore
the moment his interest in her,
passing like a film fast-forwarded,
stopped, cropped to the frozen,
single frame of love.
Larry D. Thomas
Posted over on Larry D. Thomas Blog Site
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