You blew in on the wind of an early spring
with a hint of new life in your step.
In a seamless motion we punctuated
an eight-year-old sentence.
And I realized your name must have been
written within me before I shattered
because I could feel
your embers linger in the remnants.
But many the hues of respect and admiration
you painted on her face
awakened a memory of the missing
portrait he drew of me.
I closed my eyes to prevent the tear,
and you were gone.
Naturally, I returned to the basement
to scrub stains out of dirty clothes.
Frost bent the green blade.