By Kathleen Holliday
After great pain, a formal feeling comes. —Emily Dickinson
It is time for putting away – and yet,
An aura lingers over a photograph,
A card or two.
Of himself, there is hardly a sign;
Red roses in the vase blacken
And drop to the floor as if to say:
Don’t expect a miracle.
Were I able to address him
Only Latin words would fall
Unfurling from my mouth
Like the penitent in a medieval frieze
For whom a saint is forever interceding.
Copyright Holliday 2013