You say you caught yourself wondering if
the world would be
when you were gone.
Rumpled bed sheets rumpled bedsheets.
The sound of a small brass bell to ring for help
the sound of a small brass bell.
Hair comb in hand at the ready
to fix the damage from hands patting your head.
I wonder why
the vase of ranunculus and baby’s breath
sits on the kitchen counter.
You ask about images of a woman
floating behind me.
We spend the hour reciting small histories.
I ask about the light. What color.
Gold, you say,
pointing at the carpet of gingko leaves
falling throughout the day.
Grateful we don’t rake them up.
Joan White lives in Vermont where she spends her time with plants and language. Her work has been published in American Journal of Poetry, Cider Press Review, Abstract Magazine, NPR’s On Being Blog, among others.
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