A chip-carved wooden box,

a pin with one blue stone,

gifts to hold and touch, evoking

a name, a time, a feeling.

Other more ephemeral gifts,

a poem, a word, a gesture,

somehow exquisitely private,

live on in memory alone.

This is for you, he said,

handing me half of his orange.

More could not be said

as we were not alone.

3 thoughts on “Gifts

  1. This latest post, like our late-life friendship, feels like a gift in itself. Brava!

    Envoyé de mon Di-Phone


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