IMOGENE’S NOTEBOOK

You Left Me Hanging in the Garden

A poem

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

If I could, I would remember
your face. But I have forgotten
the sweet touch of your hand,
the soft caress of breath.
Gone now, as if I never really knew them.

Too many departures
have left me frozen in mid-air,
above your desiccated roses.
In a barren, silent place
that’s sad with the memory
of green, growing things
that once reached for the
empowering sun.

Now, dead black vines
tickle icy hands.
Summer’s radiance
like dawn’s shining hope
is nowhere to be found.

You won’t bring flowers
into a packed church.
Or sip sweet champagne
on New Year’s Eve
happy with our loved ones.

There will be
no companionable silences,
no cozy moments in warm living rooms
as rain falls outside.
At the end of long journeys,
there will be no tears
over freshly…