A shadow of the rainbow

briefly fell upon my memory

of yesterday’s picnic, where

we laughed, like children

determined to live forever.

Today, at the dinner table,

coffee tastes my lips stained

with silent tears as I read

how you’re remembered,

loved, as a brilliant author.

You, a deflated jumping castle

dreaming of sunlight and grass

and wings of birds chirping

at my window. Admiring their

colours, I scatter your ashes

like words marking tomorrow’s

twists and turns foreshadowing

the novel’s inevitable ending,

delightfully, yes, displayed,

to be owned at a bargain price.

So what should I write to tell

the world. of your storyline,

a garden of tiny seeds of hope

growing tall, lush and green,

that box of Pandora’s where

nothing else remains? Alas,

I’d say, if I were here, then

you’d be weaving a tapestry

for wise men, self-exiled

fools chasing all that glitters.

Note: This was originally written on November 6, 2021.

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