I was no tiny dancer.
Maybe, once,
before you and me.
Maybe I pointed my toes and held my head high.
But I forgot how to pirouette and jete.

I know you thought you held me up.
I know you thought you fixed me.
But, my little partner,
you never stood a chance.
I'm sorry, my darling.
I tripped into your arms and you did all you could.
You held me crying and watched me dress.

I loved the lilies.
Even though they never came,
I loved the lilies.

I'm so sorry, Tom,
that when I tripped, I knocked you down.
I'm sorry I chened into someone else's arms
to learn how to dance again.

I hope someday you find a partner.
I hope she loves your lilies.
I hope she loves your danse russe.

I so like you in purple.
It gives me a lift to see
how carefully you've
mixed and matched
chosen these tones
and textures to suit
yourself and make
a pleasing picture
purple-themed
for those that share
you when I'm not about.
 
 . . . and not being there
I often think of what you wear,
think of times and seasons
patterned by your choice of clothes
that give me so much pleasure still
like well remembered friends;
a certain skirt that falls and swings,
a dress that holds your body, clings
to your long thighs, and seems
to make you taller than you are.
 
Such simple pleasure clothes afford
When chosen well and worn with care
for colour, fit and flow
              with style and sense
and understanding (which you have
you know) of your dear body's
form and grace, and movement
as you cross a room,
        stand still in thought, or drive a car.
So much to love and to admire.