(Poem by Wendy Howe )
I linger on the stair landing
to watch the almond tree
press its branches against my window.
Like a bouquet of moths,
petals quiver and thrive
on light furnished by street lamps.
Spring visits me
in the guise of van Gogh,
unsettled, delivering an impulse
to redeem something lost.
During the last hour, I have spilled buttons
from a glass jar and found
black and olive to mend your dress shirts.
Now they are wearable, garments from a time
when I did not know or love you.
Yet, part of me is stitched
in their fabric, buttons secured
with a brunette threading
I wish I could claim as my hair.
To know more about this poem, about Wendy Howe
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