Souvenirs
She too could not outdistance or erase
the echo of a voice,
the sound of laughter
the bubbling flash of mischief
in some one's eyes,
even the silhouette
etched by the sun,
one hand halfway upraised,
as though to speak
in its own silent language,
a last farewell.
Lost in the pincer grip
of an old yearning
that should have been
so long ago outrun,
she thought again
of an emerald bird -
and how, long, long
after it was gone,
a fugitive green feather,
delicate as lace,
somehow, drifting downward,
brushed her face.