A Phone Call

I wrote Al last week with the news of my poetry book. I didn't want others to tell him first. I tried to be very impersonal in the letter. He called Monday night. We chatted as friends and I thought, "Great, he's finally realizing we can't go back." We hung up on good terms.

Then he called an hour later. He had written the first part of a poem and asked me to finish it. He said, "It's only right that you finish it. The poem's about you." I finished it a while ago, printed it and am mailing it back to him.

He wrote the first stanza. I wrote the last. Here it is below:

Dew Suckle Honey

She came to me upon flowered breath
Dew suckle honey, oh how I wept.
To come so far and leave me behind,
for a moment I flowered
Now she's left me behind.
Dew suckle honey, the flowers' breath
I searched her in longing
But there can be no rest.

Dew suckle honey, bumble bees sing.
She came to him at the first of spring.
Daisies sighed and violets wept,
On heaven’s cloud they were swept.
Dew suckle honey, along came fall
As mold grew on the garden wall.
He was rooted; she had to fly away.
Dew suckle honey, memories stay.