|She died soon after many years of pain,|
A remnant of the person she once was.
Yet in the days of peace before her death
We shared a pleasure brief but undismayed.
How strange is time! The precious days so slow
Passed like a sunset seeming without end,
Agonizing in its aching beauty,
Distillate of joy before the darkness.
She was the single parent of three sons,
Leaving them just past the door to manhood,
Herself not old, still ripe with postponed passion,
Never now to know again its treasure.
But love was like a dancer in those days,
Filling every moment with its grace,
An evanescent feeling, yes, but present
As sunlight on a green and open field;
A love that felt just like the
pith of being,
Naked and alone, but unashamed,
Knowing with the certainty of sorrow
That life is no more rich than at its end.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon. Free for personal or non-commercial use.