Friday, March 6, 2009

Your mother always said you were a gray hummingbird

You catch fistfuls of moonlight and gather hackberry leaves
collecting dust on the bookshelf we built together.
I can’t remember your face when you are away.
How strange is the garden of memory,
fashioning our lives around an ideal.
It was actually the bookshelf you built while I watched and thought
how you once believed in love, but most people are blind to such things.

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