The Lady's Last Word

(Poem by Wendy Howe )

The day she wrote the letter
the garden possessed a playful mood.
Shade leaves winked, roses sulked,
and water giggled
into wide bowls of stone.

She knew the air mocked her, a satin tantrum
reflecting the moment's heat. Parting
over small things was her way
of flaunting temper. Slide open the draw,
seize the perfume flask
and spray the farewell scripture
with blossoms from Provence.

Mint, lavender, gardenia
jasmine, tangerine and moss,
all invoke a lingering presence;
but so does her lover. Still, she dreams
about tomorrow, stretching across his pillow
like a dark blonde sun.

© 2011, Wendy Howe. E-mail.
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