Ten Years Later

My longtime friend - who knew she’d never see

more daffodils – would stoop, to stop and sniff

without regret or guile, inviting me

to carry on as though there were no grief.

One outing, over lunch and what you will,

I said, “You can’t have that.” Her rage popped out,

then vanished, unexpressed. She ate, looked ill,

excused herself, then went for walkabout.

And after that which passed, unspoken, there?

To mourn should call for black; but spring arrived,

in blush and cream, inordinately fair –

despite my dusk, the world itself survived.

There was no service, per her wishes then.

Still, I had lunch with her each year, for ten.