The Poetry Marathon

Your voice

is sure.

I listen.

I’m the one

who

will never leave you…

who would die

without you.

I try not to hear your voice

drop

“ I love you,” you whisper.

I feel myself

starting to become her,

Her voice,

whispering

back.

They go on this way.

Late Night

When the moon is up

your sleepless voice wafts from

the little churchyard

I turn away

from the cold sheets to find

your warm letter lying still

beside me

the last one you sent

that April before

you died

and after those years

I opened the envelope again

and your sleepless voice

fell out

and burst into life

from the cold earth

blooming like Dafidils in the spring

to remind me of how you were

so full of life when I

pressed a Daffodil in your book