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a poem by Joseph Veronneau


You always took
words right from my mouth;
sometimes less articulate
than I may have liked,
but why have everything the same?
Where you are
the tree limbs sway today,
overlooking a century
of good deeds:
ones that laughed
and realized too late
that their gardens
were best when they were containing
a piece of themselves, how when
planting your own
there was just a grant being given
to pull that air through your lips,
take in the fragrance
of renewed season
and exhale.
You fill more of the earth now;
don't deny the shadows
cast upon you
on gray days like this.
New orchids coming your way
as another note is left by someone
who thinks you can still read,
hoping you'll
create another song or two
on that acoustic or beat up electric
you'd strum weekends
mostly to entertain yourself.
I trace my fingers
over your carved letters,
drop them to the tops of grass blades
and push back up
into my world, considering
heavier cloudiness
and the pointless reduction
of an hour contemplating
the who and why.

© by Joseph Veronneau
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #17 ~ September 2011    return to top