[Soaring Feather]

Like a painting aged
flaking and chipping
flecks of scenes
and
wrapped in dusty
brown paper
the landscape
of my face changed
with deepened lines
mellowed attitude
sharp edges
worn round from
rubbing against
your square shoulders
you left before the
final show was staged
and my hair now silvered
limping into the golden years
crawling into a cold bed
might require flannel sheets
especially where the mattress dips
from your form...

[Kay Syrah]

When the impression of
what cold sheets becomes
where we loved and
who made it so.
Why not dare a chill
naked memory,
when we remember
what time we burned
where the hearth could
not contain us, but
who will know
why if we cannot
remember and warm.