Untitled Poem #7

Sunday sunshine breaches dark cloud,
streams through bedroom window,
warming my face–
Alone now,
I stretch over white duvet.
On bedside table, black coffee waits
going cold as
I ruminate start of this day;
“Come what may.”

His scent on me–
faint now;
Lost within a dream–
or blown away on the wind,
like summer blue sky
in late August–
or Italian lavender.

His face–
so sweet with that
aquamarine gaze
and the promise whispered;
“Always…”

I cannot auspicate future need,
or if planets will align.
Revelations are, indeed, for another time.
At most, these memories upon which I feed–
wait as I continue to ruminate–
and hope they do not grow cold.

By A.E. Wallace

My Secret Garden

My Secret Garden

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About A. E. Wallace aka Selkie

Ann Wallace holds a degree from the University of Texas at El Paso in Mass Communications and minored in Creative Writing. She worked at the NBC Affiliate Newschannel9 in El Paso, was a journalist for the El Paso Diocese Catholic Newspaper, held writing workshops with The Tumblewords Project, performed as a Slam Poet and published poetry in small literary magazines. She is now an ex-pat in the UK where she lives, knits, games, works and writes. Much, much more has happened since those days. Drop me a line a line and let's talk. View all posts by A. E. Wallace aka Selkie

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