On a clear Sunday morning
at the end of summer
I sit on my not-so-famous deck
to drink my morning decaf —
The cats are out around me
and the laps of the cutting waves
and occasional distant bird calls
grace my new? existence
which Eye have been questioning
of late
The Scraggly Apple
has no leaves now — it sits bare
for the birds and me
The surf tonight has a mournful tone
perhaps the cause is my frame of mind —
a young man is gone
my daughter knew him well
his family grieves together
while I walk out mine
Jevon Link came to Eliza’s door
ten years ago on Valentine’s Day
holding a bouquet of roses
pink I think.
She dried
and painted
them.
I look at her watercolour
every morning.
Joanna Gilman Hyde 