What happens now you aren’t here to tend the tree in your room —
Will your light still germinate, will you lay your seed to bloom?
Am I to become keeper, gardener of your belonging —
To turn your memory into a greenhouse, spilling, overbrimming?
Am I to delude myself into believing, that your leaving was too soon?
Will you come to me at twilight or can you only be seen at noon —
Dappled gently amongst the grove, a frayed bouquet of sunbeam —
Will you ride the tops of our river to the source of my stream?
Am I relegated to meet you — asleep — in daydream —
Or can I spot you on the backs of spoons — at an angle — which you gleam?
Is that shine no longer special, has the metal lost its lustre —
I beg you, tell me — how much more force of will must I muster?
If I close the curtain now, would you call it premature —
Or would you be okay with me just not quite closing the door?