I thought I’d lost her poetry forever,
each page of her letters torn, discarded
in a storm my good intentions created.
Perhaps. As the oldest I always took blame
for accidents – whenever things went wrong.

I blamed my self-obsessiveness for years.
And then I found her poem in a storybook
she wrote about murders in New Orleans,
her hometown. My heart took a leap of joy!
I captured her poetry on my phone:

“When kindred flames of love unite two hearts . . .
 . . . heaven’s grace
then intercedes. Reality departs
Into a world envisioned in fine arts,
And fantasies. and dreams.”  

Left out most, but you get the sense of it.
Those lines swept a young me off my feet!
Her poetry had such musicality,
so much rhyme. Rhythm. And we were so young,
so innocent. Thirty years ago.
I’d like to see her/hold her hand again.


Author: Raymond Maxwell Librarian, archivist, retired foreign service officer and Navy veteran.

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