She built a little house,
and a great big life.
She married well,
she married for life.
She’d found love,
but not a soul-mate,
for she, not the stars,
They were child- and carefree
for he loved whom he had found,
not who he could have created.
Then the day came that she needed
a part of him he could live without.
She lived, but he did not.
The irony was metallic,
Under the Floridian sun,
he was buried–
the hurricanes with her wild horses came,
the rains turned the ground muddy,
and there was that thready blanket of snow
that came one winter.
Then long after she came to join him,
everyone who had memory of him,
like ashes in the wind.
like a childhood scar,
until it could no longer be seen.