Phlox Oakington Blue Eyes

You reminded me of phlox
rounding a Sunny-side curve
to an old friend's house;

not Scarlet,
popping defiantly as grease
but Oakington Blue eyes -
denim, the color of torn Levis
and shirts worn in the 70's;

frost-hardy under the pressure
of ice and notorious for slow
warmth until conformed to bodily
contours with an aged grace.

It's been three plus decades
those curves still exist
as does the house
only with different occupants.

Our friend, your love left us
into the wind of a memory
blowing so hard at times
it rattled a secret wide as Texas.

I've driven that road ritually
turned my head from the history
of my past existence
admiring the phlox instead.

It's a migratory memory
returning differently each season;
something cyclic in the dying Spring
heralds my unwilling presence.

I guess what I'm trying to say
is that I answered the summons
as Summer and drove
those old curves today-
looked warily at weeds swallowing
cracked stones we used to skip;
the paint chipped, residue peeling
back from its wooden cheeks,
skeletal door sagging with screen.

Finally breathed
the forgotten remembering.

I could've told you
before you departed this place
that you reminded me of Phlox Oakington Blue Eyes
rounding a Sunny-side curve
to an old friend's house
instead of a cemetery plot.

It may have washed the grave
dirt from your wrists.

But, seeing you'd lost enough earth
sunrise regret wasn't worth risking
what little you had left.

I secured the unrequited memory
as a bottle of fine wine
that in this lifetime  
can never be uncorked
or shared by us.
 
~