Mary

What has gone old, lost,
So long forgot and put aside,
Trembled up like a green meadow,
And has come tender by my side.
When I recall your voice—
Your smile—the coming forth of blooms
Round the world, how they trimmed
The cobbled streets of the heart's capitol.
A sky there was in your cheeks,
So breathless that day we wed.
Your mouth a land bursting,
Laughter that rang like wild birds,
Lit on things, the tiniest blade
Of grass in the vast hemisphere
Of a soul and sang sweetly.
Your face that curious country
That one only hears about.
The far hills and the little wood
And thatched the nests of sparrows,
The many merry houses they built,
The steep slopes of anthills. Look!
The butterflies, wasps and bees
Tickled the air, all in spring day
Till your life it turned quietly away
And shut my heart like a book.

© Ernest Slyman

(originally appeared Word Outa Buffalo)