What Remains

Raw, bitter, gnarled roots

A well run dry

An amber brazier burnt to the wick,

And the last of the summer wine

Four walls, maybe five, maybe six

Stained red leather couch.

Spools of embroidery thread,

Green-blue. The ocean’s hue

Shakespeare’s best,

Notes scrawled in the margins.

The roses won’t grow

Unless you sing to them.

Signed, sealed, delivered with no ceremony.

No envelope, no lips pressed to the letter.

A new bind that tethers,

An old promise severed.