This work was last updated November 21, 2019

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At steps and snow, I saw her
Wrapped in denim, cotton and faux fur.
She shivered and smiled in the most timid of ways
And at steps and snow, I think of her.

In poorly lit rooms, I saw her
Raising her hand and saying, "la fleur."
Her voice was soft and almost fragile,
And at fleurs in rooms, I think of her.

On couches in libraries, I saw her
Burying her nose in a genre I prefer.
Her gaze tilted up and met mine,
And during thriller novels, I think of her.

On lumpy seats in a rolling bus, I saw her
But she saw me first, as it were
An awkward space shortened as she sat,
So on bus rides to nowhere, I think of her.

In fields of sunshine, I saw her
Glowing even when rainclouds could occur.
I pulled together the strength to ask,
So of fields of sunshine, I think of her.

Under white satin and veils, I saw her
And never more was I so sure.
Words exchanged and tears shed,
At veils and flowers, I think of her.

In rows of gravestones, I see her,
With our whole lives passing in a blur.
I place orchids beside her name,
And at orchids and gravestones, I think of her.