Left alone

He will miss
      the seasonal change,
      subtle as it will be:
      the first two waves of chill.

He will leave
      when humid air still knocks
      against skin like angry beads
      and the jasmine draws in
      its final bees for the year—

And will be gone
      while the oleander begin
      their hibernating droop
      and the hibiscus expose
      frameworks of thinning bones.

He will not know
      the needle�s drill into
      tame, unsuspecting flesh,
      or the restive landscape
      of waiting for results—

But will return
      in time to witness
      the expected conflagration:
      scarlet berries on the yaupon.

Not another death poem

This poem is not about death;
there are too many of those.
It is about everything else:
the long discussions of when
we were seven or twenty-two;
how we fancied being �great writers�
(both of us, even then);
how we were otherwise unalike,
you protesting in the streets,
      me watching,
you flirting with any and all
who would flirt back,
      me blushing,
you with the wild hair and umber eyes.

It is about anything but now;
anything but the slow fading,
anything but the white lilies
that will cover you before
the next hint of frost on the meadow.

                                                                                                © Janet Lynn Davis

Loch Raven Review Fall 2005 — Vol. I, No. 1
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