Janet I. Buck
The Voice Remains

Meandering the foggy cape in mushy sand,
your words come back,
breaking winter's stillness now.
The sea, you said, to quote Van Gogh,
"is the color of mackerel, changeable."
Its wavy leather lucid hide
a letter in a painter's hand.
Prismed slants of signatures.
It's been two decades since we've hugged.
So much has passed; so much decay.
Your wife of almost sixty years
has gone to heaven; she's talking
up a storm with God:
"She'll have a nice log cabin waiting.
Tulips sitting on the table
drinking from the love still there."
I can almost smell the wood.

Deafness rules our conversation.
Touch is groping in the night.
I've let the clay of distance set.
Now I'm passing through and stop.
A child on a racing skateboard--
even though I'm growing old.
Cobwebs of my graying hair
like harems of a hoping sky
that cling to columns of your life.
I press my ear against your tongue
and listen for a scrap of spit
that's much more noble than my words.
Taking notes on torn diplomas of our flesh.
Hugging the wax around a wick.
Your voice remains in thunder claps
of gratitude for living
the drink of a full, full cup.
Books upon the dusty shelves
like bedroom slippers
peeking out from sagging chairs.