Tall Crescent

I cannot undo or censor
the typewrite upon my feeble hands,
an outspread of pages before your eyes and mine,
margins of me lettered and tanned by the touch of a year.

I read your goodnights as a blowing kiss of wind,
and these pages flitter open wherever they may.

In the now lightest of my dim years,
you wrote surrender and beauty in your subtle way.
How did they glimmer more ocean-like than all the others?
A blue and a ray, a simplicity and a strength.

My grit won me feather scraps for flying to a new world,
an imperfect paper world in which illness became health,
and isolation became my deliverance.
Your words have become my own to love again and again.

I could hold your voice in a crescent glass for as long as ever,
and it could be my moon when I need it to.