There’s a rose in the streets of Lisbon
still, after all this space and time—still
after personal narrative arcs have closed
the circle—and I’m okay. That’s okay.
At peace, this morning, I spoke
with my friend, about wonder,
about how easy it is to forget.
So many faces, so many eyes
all around me, every day,
full of childhood, full of beauty
but lifeless, as if
all that could have been
There was a butterfly in the parking lot
this morning—still—unmoving. I stopped
and stared at the space where it had chosen
to stop breathing. I wondered at the weight
convincing enough to end its story
or a hurricane on the other side of
There’s a rose in the streets of Lisbon.
Still. I can’t see it. Not as it is,
but I will not forget, as it was,
when you left, when all of you left
your purpose behind
and it’s not okay.