of loss
the greatest measure
an empty sugar bowl
reminds me of a past
not really gone

of jackets
in the closet –
clothes I’ll never wear
weightless I’ve surrendered
to their style

crowded little cobwebs
hushed where
nothing did
tired whites –
are starched with getting on

of sorrow
kept unnoticed
by the world of passersby
flowers bloom
to colors
not yet grey

breezes lift me skyward
from paths of yesterday
someone speaks
but I don’t hear
a thing

. . .

Author’s Note:  For Charles.