Remote

I started to tell you how I remember the night we met but
the story got lost in the dirty cup of cola on the coffee table,
the white ring on the oak, the coaster nestled nearby
under work papers and the television’s black remote.

I wanted to say, “Come look!  The boxwood has grown and
the grape hyacinths I planted for you last fall are blooming,
but you told me the story of leaving early and coming home late instead.

The feral cat is full of kittens (again) and the goldfinches are dressing
in spring’s bright gold.  Yesterday a hawk scared a small bird
into the window and I put it in a high flower pot for protection
until it could come to its senses and fly away.

The stories watch us from the corner, no pot for protection,
still as fossils caught in the comet’s storm, senses silenced
leaving us with nothing left to say.

[suddenly I can’t upload a picture to my image file not even from the already uploaded gallery.  Always something]