A NotebookBright hopes scrawled there by my virgin hand: a veil, a flower, shining silver, a maiden mother and her child, an apple on the heavy fruited bough fallen, ripe and gold, into her lap. The veil is torn, the flower wilted, the ring has dropped not to be found again. The mother frowns, the child cries, the apple rots beneath the summer sun.These things remain here only in my ink.
An Empty BoxA lock of hairclipped with kissesfrom a loved head,exchanged for my ownbound up with goldand placed in his pocketóI kept it with care,placed it reverentlyin a box of brass and glass,like some saint's relicóa talisman, a tokenbound with blue binding.Two years it laidon my cold dresser.Blue ribbons bindingloosened their hold.
GratitudeHis bed is warm, familiar, and it smellsfamiliar too, the mingled scentsof sweat, wood and tobacco, and the sweet-scented soap he washes with. I lie herebeside him every night. Sometimes I slipin by him while he sleeps, burrow my facebehind his soft back. The smell of his bodyis warm, comforting as any blanket.I fall asleep in the soft grateful glow,of having this, my portion, here on earth.