Days I wake remembering
you in a bathtub, bubbles
overflowing with your wine
in a chipped goblet held
aloft, I’m stricken again
by the beauty of brevity,
of curly haired boys who
grow tall but not old.
Friend, tell me the story you never told
about your father, who
also died young , but not before
he taught you the secrets
of his mother’s spaghetti sauce,
the love of fine leather, carved
wood, antique quilts, luxurious
useful things you made to give away.
All these years later I marvel
at the ways you come back to us –
in your son’s open face, your
daughter’s halo of ringlets,
lithe tie-dyed minstrels, they carry
your guitar, recall lullabies
sung out of tune, how the scent of garlic
and clove brings you into the room
every time.
Early Morning Poems 