Ode to Henry - by Amy Belding Brown

Ode to Henry

After he is gone
the room still smells
of pond and pine;
your hand still curls
around the arrowhead
he pressed into your palm
like memory, like truth;
your intellect
unfolds his words
like paper snowflakes
cut by children;
one by one
you recognize the shapes
of constellations
and the quarter moon,
of sun-warmed stones,
and ferns uncrooking
their green shepherd staffs
of clouds like premonitions
drifting at the edge of sight.
He is forever
leaving such impressions
to flutter like dark moths
against the dusty windows
of your heart.

May 13, 2002