*

I do not make a cringing scene
For an invisible audience
Where I cling to your being
With pictures or words
With which I could have dreamed
But I do remember you
In sorrow about your absence
Deserving pardon
One letter after another
That find you.
Is it my fault
That flowers bring your face
Every place they bloom or die?
For I do not decide the muse
A poet never does
And now you have become my art
Seemingly just because.