Photographs
it was the Sunday before you left
I remember the breakfast
then the walk.
The floral gardens are so lovely
in the early summer.
Focused perfectly
you framed in roses
within the arch
of the climbing rose arbor.
My camera clicked once.
Somewhere a windchime
was lilting.
Looking now
at the last photograph
I would take of you.
They say theĀ camera
tells no lies.
Your ashen loveless face
Was saying the goodbye
I heard this morning.
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