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.

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