Thirty-one years ago
in some momentary blessing
an unexpected quiet fell
impeccably potent
just behind our chairs
sheltering us from
the common cacophony of busy
machine-gun hammers
screeching saws and

laughing, lusty men.
While that gift of silence
merged with golden September sun
Giles whispered words about
a sorrowing sense we shared
of precious little goodness.
He in his tender blonde Mormon beauty
me in my summery pulsing brown heat
we opened heart to soul
murmuring together our wistfulness.
I heard a woman’s oboe voice.
I saw her arms splashed with cherries.
I admired his father’s enduring integrity.
Shielding three children, maybe four,
a singing and dancing wife
that gentle poet lived precariously
puzzled by human contradictions.
Later, three poems, folded and shy
slipped into my Les Fleurs du Mal
waiting to soothe me again
on this cloudy Sunday afternoon.

© Jeanne Treadway, 2014

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