Terry W. Ford

Residue

The pewter tray on my buffet;
 
 three dainty, crystal white wines
 
 (my younger daughter broke the fourth
 
 playing cocktail party);
 
 in my golf bag, a putter
 
 nearly a foot too long for me;
 
 on the shelf above the tub,
 
 a rubber duck I bought
 
 to keep you company
 
 during your inordinately
 
 long times in the bathroom.

In the attic, a candy box
 
 full of drink stirrers, wine corks,
 
 theater tickets, a few letters,
 
 a ramshackle, old, resort hotel on a postcard—
 
 funny cards that say,
 
 I love you.

A handsome couple in a photograph:
 
 She laughs at him.
 
 He drinks champagne
 
 from her shoe.

Irrelevant residue.
 
 Dusty treasures.
 
 All that’s left of you.

Winter Colors

Allie, allie in free
 
 Distant voices, strangers’ children.

In the shrubbery winter birds
 
 crack seed from a neighbor’s feeder.

Tangled, leafless,
 
 dogwood twigs slice
 
 across an icy early April sky
 
 the blue of Siberian Squill,
 
 the azure of a Nordic eye,
 
 the hue of a nursery blanket.

Dividing the trees,
 
 late winter’s slanting light
 
 leads on toward home.

It will be silent there.
 
 The feeder hangs unfilled.

Our lightning-shattered willow’s roots
 
 have rotted into food
 
 for next month’s bright new grass—
 
 the glaring color of last year’s
 
 Easter basket cellophane.

Terry W. Ford