to my dead friend dave
The emerald seasons, high on themselves,
glisten in shimmering mornings.
Divining life through pantomime
illusions, they rise and fall
greening bones bared during the fallow
void of winter’s faded balcony
where you sit forever locked
in celestial observation
flapping your quirky rhythm
in wind that jostles my car
on highway 87 near Moccasin’s
The first stanza of this poem came, and then it changed into a poem to my friend David Arnott. After being hit by a truck on highway 87 near Moccasin, Montana, last November he lingered in a coma a few weeks before dying. The title will remain obscure. Dave and I always joked that our daughters were twins with different parents. They were born a month a part, and look like sisters. My poem, The Dead Woman and The Mad Hatter at Beyond the Bozone is the first piece I wrote for Dave.
Please visit The Sunday Whirl and check out some other poems written with these wordle words. You’ll be glad you did.