POEM FOR MY WIFE

summer’s cool early evening,  filled glasses
of silver champagne, soft aroma of tobacco
mixed with fragrances from the garden --
red cigarette pack on the tablecloth or a pipe
bowl resting against an ashtray.  these, the
days leading to autumn and you, my dearest.

winter’s bleak evening trees, attenuated
fingers reaching up to grasp stars and the
blanched moon resting in the greenhouse --
heavy coat on the grass or fine lace
in the parlor reclining close to the fire.
these days ripened by your presence, my love.

spring’s black owl, night in the open air house,
courtyards where we read together
laudanum ramblings of Lord Byron or
Mary Shelley’s remarkable prose.  these days
gone in the feuding winds, in softness of
remembrance, in the fragility of endless love.