Faded Septembers

I can't remember the brand you smoked, but I prefer to imagine you now, wherever you are, clutching a pipe, sweet smoke curling slowly around and wafting toward me as you reload your sharp wit.

I've read every word written countless times, but no matter how many hours I spend pouring over them with my mental magnifying glass I know I'll never understand the nuances you intended.

I confess that sometimes when I wake to the chime of my phone, in my half sleep I still check to see if it's you with your endless rambling thoughts, come to lay them at my mailbox so I can help you decipher the next step.

I have nothing tangible to touch but one day I intend to walk on the soil where you walked and then I will lay down my hands to the poppies you planted that I imagine still grow there.

The acrid taste of my grief turns to bitter loneliness as the years pass and the table empties until all that is left is the grimy and fading tablecloth, and the crumbs of your glory.

~For the accidental shepherd from his girl from the north country

I guess I better buy that flatbed Ford one day. Get myself a coffee. Maybe next year.