DEAR POET FRIEND, 

(1964-2017)

I do not think of you

every minute of every day. 

Only 

when I read a poem 

or write one I cannot share

or 

when blossoms open

on the gardenia 

you sent for Mother’s Day.

Only

when your face 

slips into the silence of afternoon 

or

cracks the code 

of my muddled dreams.

Only

when I see a black butterfly 

riding a wave of wind

unaware

how brief will be its flight.