Blue Mirror

                       He thought the white glove
                       Of her memory would suffocate
                       By its own flame,
                       Burning itself out like a suicide,
                       And she would forget
                       The amber memories their time imbued.
                       It was the best.  For a time.
                       Better than anything.
                       Before or since.
                       If he could but loosen
                       The stones, overturn them,
                       So she could read the words
                       He never intended to write,
                       Maybe then
                       The closeness would not be lost,
                       But could be summoned
                       Like the anticipated smell of honeysuckle.

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