by Tamara Britton

 

Spring’s new air, fragrant

With daffodils growing proud

Around the cypress tree,

Like the soldiers he knew in

World War I, erect and awaiting

Afternoon inspection.

 

He couldn’t remember

My name, for it floated

Away with the wind.

 

Summer’s golden sun soothes

And relaxes my bare shoulders.

My feet toast in the sand,

Like the many camping

Trips that filled my

Younger years.

 

He couldn’t remember

His name for it disappeared

With the setting sun.

 

Autumn’s leaves—golden

Hues and burgundy tones—

Rain from the trees,

Like the fireworks flaunting

Brilliantly in the sky on

Our wedding night.

 

He couldn’t remember

How to talk when his

Voice blew away with the leaves.

 

 Winter’s unforgiving frost

Glazed white the bedroom

Window pane,

Like the fog hovering

Over the lake where we

First made love.

 

He couldn’t remember

How to walk when the bitter

Cold crept up his legs.

 

Last month, the rain

Poured relentlessly

On our flower garden,

Like the frantic

Tapping of a writer

Facing a deadline.

 

He couldn’t remember

How to eat as his hunger died

With the purple irises.

 

Last night, the new

Moon but a sliver

In the darkness,

Like the dim life

I struggled to see in

His dark eyes.

 

He couldn’t remember

How to breathe when

The stars beckoned him

Away from me.