The Lavender Chair
She outbid me at an auction that morning.
A bergère; cane seat – rosewood rockers,
with pretty finials and a hand-carved back.
Too big for her car, we used mine, and
in her tiny, basement flat, I helped her
paint it, a paler shade of purple. Yet,
the problem was, it squeaked. I said
I’d oil it – one of these days.
And tonight, on an evening, softer
than a moth’s kiss on a Tuscan rose...
the rain, thrumming a largo beat
on a weeping window-pane, I smell
her hair, taste her skin, and all because
of a lavender chair – once sang its own
sweet elegy to the passing of time –
mocks me with its silence.