An old boyfriend recently sent me this. He had given it to me a few years ago and told me how it always reminds him of me whenever he reads it to this day. It brought tears to my eyes as I remembered our special times together, the fun, the adventure, laughter, romance, hours of deep conversations, just being authentic, being me. I getting back to that person called "ME" one day at a time. Life will be good again. And true friends are priceless.
Queen Anne's Lace
Her body is not so white as
anemone petals nor so smooth--nor
so remote a thing. It is a field
of the wild carrot taking
the field by force; the grass
does not raise above it.
Here is no question of whiteness,
white as can be, with a purple mole
at the center of each flower.
Each flower is a hand's span
of her whiteness. Wherever
his hand has lain there is
a tiny purple blossom under his touch
to which the fibres of her being
stem one by one, each to its end,
until the whole field is a
white desire, empty, a single stem,
a cluster, flower by flower,