I miss him
he was the poet in my poetry
the leaves of my poet tree;
and now this winter is so barren.

˜
I miss him
like the flowers miss the springtime
like the nightingale misses  its song;
and this silence is a deafening cacophony.

˜
I miss him
and I long to hear the nightingale sing
rather than recall it from memory..
before it becomes an unfamiliar fragrance
in my garden.

˜
I miss him.