Between May and December (II)

The fifteenth. Almost too early to be called morning.
A last wide-eyed breath, oxygen
lines not enough to pull life
down into lungs riddled with what is no longer lung,

nolonger her.
There are no witnesses except the roses
beginning just to bud. He plants a miniature, pink,
in the side bed she had wrested from dust.

Her side of the bed lies cold, stretches
south. The phone rings again,
and again and again. He isn’t
told the day they put her in the ground.

Her carefully tended gardens bloom
once more, fade. The pink thrives
in caked mud through hottest summer,
slight scent of cloying memory.

September brings the burden of storms,
hurricanes. The side bed is awash,
and he is hundreds of miles away.
Wrapped in cold stone,

she can’t hear the wind as it cries.
First frost comes late, softly.
The twenty-fifth, Christmas morning,
a single blighted bud nearing

crimson
has risen shyly against the
white of Decembergrass, but
he doesn’t make it in time to see.

26 thoughts on “Between May and December (II)

  1. Such a sharply-etched picture of the insides of a life’s, love’s ebb-tide, everything invested and matured and shared and loved simply worn away and lost in death. Become the leavings of oblivion. Fine work.

  2. this feels difficult to write, not difficult to read, but from what you’ve shown seems hard to pick which strands to show and which to leave behind. the final line does it for me, confirms you wove the right lines from what you are pulling from.
    if that makes sense.
    anyway i got a little teary at my desk. december is the bitterest of sweet.

  3. It is unfair that things in life are temporary or an illusion. God and I will have a very heated discussion re this most unfortunate imperfection in his/her creation. (used his/her re requirements gender equality and small h’s re separation of church and state).

    • I appreciate the political correctness of your comment, Carl, but such niceties are in no way necessary around here. 🙂 Glad to know you’re going to set the powers-that-be straight, though. Somebody’s gotta do it.

  4. This is an incredibly powerful piece. I love the ending:

    “a single blighted bud nearing
    crimson
    has risen shyly against the
    white of Decembergrass, but
    he doesn’t make it in time to see.”

  5. deeply moving with feeling…i like that the flower came up there at the end it broke the feelings a different way for me…and then he did not see it…nice joanna

    • Victoria, thank you for the invitation to the Wednesday prompt– I am more than happy to post the link, though I may not be able to visit other participants until late tomorrow. Lots of great ideas for writers you’ve got up over there!

  6. I am filled with a story of people I didn’t know but I am knowing powerful emotions. I don’t like thinking that everything is so temporary but I need the reminder. Lovely piece. I enjoyed it immensely!

  7. What an excellent ending, perfect example for Victoria’s writing prompt. You paint such a clear picture with your words, simply wonderful. Thanks for sharing it!

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