TOM HARMON
TETHERED
You linger
in a place beyond sleep
amid a garden of gifts.
How I pray
your last sense
Is that of the flowers
not the whir of machines
that keep you here.
ONLY YOU
call me
without a sound
know me
beyond what I
know myself
hold me
fast
in the warmth and scents
of early June days
throughout the winter
and leave me
wanting
nothing more.
IN THE GREENHOUSE
There are tools, seed pots
and larger ones in stacks
near piles of soil
and scents filling the sanctuary
already full of February’s sun
catching beads of sweat on panes
and there is a stool
for rest, when afternoon’s winter work
grows tiring
and hope in spades.
TOO LATE
I wish we could
hold hands again
and walk
not in woods or on beaches
as we did vacationing
but around the block
side-by-side, with not a word said
just your touch, your presence
making the familiar
wonderfully new.
I wish we could
walk hand-in-hand
and rue each day we didn’t.