I weave

a tapestry

of roses

crimson flush

against cool

marble

your name

etched with

precision

for many

after to

walk past

without it

meaning

anything

fine rain falls

blisters pucker

on my untrained

fingers- a wreath

that will wilt

in days but

I have a need

to create like

you once did

your artwork

is in an attic

now I cannot

bring myself

to erect it

like you'd want

someone opens

bag sour cream

chips, leaning

against another

name: I made sure

to buy your favorite

kettle cooked

the wreath is

unfinished but

I leave it that

way on purpose

loose ends- life

& death, creation

& destruction

I wave to the

person with

chips as if

to promise

to you or

myself or

them

I'll return

and so

too will

the art

you left

behind