Countdown

I bottle up scents
The  first night after
The  first fight and tears
First “I love you”s and “I hate you”s
The first fissures and poorly-made welds

I pickle parts
Of that living, breathing thing between us
Always on life-support
Knowing
Time runs out

Charming

How charming is
The posy in your pocket
The curl of auburn
Nestled in your locket
Your smiles at
Yellow daises and daffodils
By the meadow’s little rill
Which will run a hundred days
As long as your laughter plays
And promises
You’ll stay.

Graceful Exits

In my mind I hold the many children
That were friends and foes.
Like Peter, never-changing
They remain.
The vestigial shadows of last year’s flowers —
If I were to find them today:
Only the smell of damp earth.