by Matt Chalmers
“So these moments count for a lot.” (William Stafford, “Just Thinking”)
Blueberry night sky, so
it seemed fitting to ask about your garden, about how your raspberries seemed to still sparkle in the moonlight. “I want one of these
in my yard,” I muttered, pointing at your trellis. I was enthralled by the romance of standing here, alone, with you. Quiet moments
And slow dances, hand-held walks, and toe dips in ice cube cold creeks.
ing each purple lupine petal in your yard, I pretended to for–
get whether we were on 27 or 28. And I wanted to see you smile one more time; a
smile as sweet as the Savannah landscape where you grew up:
wide open, lush, filled with sunlit waves of auburn and honey.
So these moments count for a lot.
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