he didn’t much care
whether crystal chandeliers lit by morning
were hung like quartz
in the shadows of arches painted golden by a merciful sun
or whether a spring green salad
included dried cranberries and candied walnuts

his desire was for one last poem before it was all gone
and to feel silver words from his tongue

where does it go
in the matter of moments when sounds of the oboe
and softness of the trumpet
offer marching orders

cadence and pause become one note
in the quiet of life’s journey
raspberry vinaigrette covers a multitude of sins
and reflections from the crystal chandelier
casts shadows where memories can no longer hide

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