by Jane Lang
I remember his kiss—a symphony would
play, crescendo, then still my heart.
Memories assailed my senses this past
Monday and as I looked out my window
towards dusk, raindrops had stained each pane.
Hummingbirds at the feeder, crickets singing
their mating call like a soft lament in
moonlight—his arms wrapped around me as
I spoke of columbine, a soft shade of pink,
in the grassy meadow we ran through as
teens; most often he would drop his keys,
not notice for minutes and with a sigh,
hand-in-hand we would turn back to
find them in those waves of yesterday.