To Christine

Today I learned the world lost a great poet, and I lost the best friend I have ever had.  This happened on Deccember 31, 2012.  Nobody had let me know, but I loved her as a wonderful friend and poet.  This poem I wrote for her a few years ago, so she had a chance to read it. Here's to you, Christine:


                                               She's not too proud
                                                    to light the kerosene
                                                                                      lamp,
                                               or to mention artichokes
                                                    growing outside her kitchen
                                                                                      window.
                                               She talks freely about
                                                    the spring wildflowers--
                                                                                       columbine--
                                                windflowers--trilliums--blue myrtle.
                                                                                          Different---
                                                YES, but never strange,
                                                      If she chooses, she'll
                                                                                          run
                                                freely allowing nature to
                                                      clothe her trhoughts and
                                                                                         body.
                                                She held me with
                                                       the fingers of one
                                                                                         hand,
                                                and showed me what
                                                       lies beyond a green
                                                                                         reflection.
                                                 I'd give her thanks
                                                       for all she had given,
                                                                                         but
                                                 I know too well
                                                       that she'll refuse the
                                                                                         praise.
                                                If I could find
                                                       one more yellow swamp
                                                                                         violet,
                                                Perhaps then she'd know
                                                       without  me saying one
                                                                                          word.