In memory of the interment of my beloved husband, Floyd Russell Taylor, on August 15, 2023
White petals drifting downwards
Beautify the graves of the Earth.
Even as spring flies into a summery sky,
This whiteness is a lingering emblem of winter,
And those who nod in sleep beneath the snow.
One year ago, into their sod
I commended your soul.
Trees had fully revived, leafing into a forest,
But roses went white from their torture by thorns.
On that day, I lay my bouquet on our grave,
Still waiting, still gaping for one of us.
Then, I walked down the hill, and kept away
While the roses, white with pain, slowly withered,
And in fall, summer commenced its collapse.
At last, this lapse reprimanded by conscience,
I return on the first anniversary.
You telepath a vision of perfect, crystalline flakes,
Shapes the dead prefer to grow instead of flowers.
In response, I tell you this:
If I have loved you imperfectly,
Without finality,
Nonetheless, I love you eternally.
My heart is otherwise fallow, a winter’s clay,
But hallowed from losing you.
Guide me. Please. I pray.
I am a drifter, drifting ever downwards to…
Do not ask me where.
Steven Golden
July 27th to August 3, 2024
stevengoldenpoetry 