Wednesday, March 3, 2010


You could be missed.
Afterwards, she will speak
more than these centuries
of wedlock and its silence,
but you won't hear.
The words will come slow
at first,through her eyes bleeding,
resonantly, like dull hammers
where your eardrum should be;
you won't hear, I promise.
But she will speak, repeatedly,
will try to explain, forgive.
The time could come when
she will answer all her own
questions about love and things.
And, if she's honest,
you will be deeply missed.
But you shall never know.
by my late husband. Alex-- May 1972

Saturday, January 23, 2010


I see the child
in the garden, her head
filled with the wind,
and her eyes in the summer of children
bright as the sun;
I hear her laugh
in the garden, her mind
swallowed in dreams,
and her mouth in the learning of children
full of the sun.
I watch her dance
in the garden, her face
determined and lent,
and her limbs like the gallows of children
crossed in the sun
I love the child
in the garden, a voice
that I once knew,
and remember the growing of children
lost in the sun.
by my late husband ALEX written in the 70's