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The Young Man

Sometimes when she saw someone turn around
The corner, or pass through a restaurant door,
Or when spring with its symphonic score
Of buds performed and surged without a sound,
She felt him, a presence, an absence, and more…
There was no longer grief, but a strange pain,
A part of her that thought the young man hadn’t died,
A part that thought she would meet him again.
But she knew, she knew it was fantasy,
Though the fantasy bore a grain of truth.
Certainly the vibrancy, the light of this youth
Looked through the eyes of the passersby,
Looked through the eyes of those
Sitting at the restaurant tables, looked from the sky
When summer was absorbed in poetic blue,
When winter was absorbed in the sharpest prose.
When the young man was alive, they would share…
Presence had reached an exuberant pitch
Of love, adventure – but his absence would stitch
A raiment of wisdom which she would wear,
Being led back to her majestic heart,
Being guided through life – breathing art.

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