I wish you were still here, Joy.
I wanted to read the poems you were yet to write.
I should have dropped in
any one of the dozens of times I drove through.
As it is… I’ll visit one day…
bring a branch of kowhai flowers to your grave.
Sit there and tell you
that the light is still like chardonnay.
And then I guess
walk away
feeling like that was rather pointless
when you think about it.