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 F.H. Thurmond



Maytime rain sprinkles purple peonies

through misty windowpanes

behind the antique desk, where

from a fading photograph 

your smile enlightens dusk.


Last night, a child again

I clambered down carpeted stairs

to a dark-floored hallway of dreams,

sensing your unseen presence 

past the old kitchen door—


past the warm yellow outline

of our old kitchen door,

where I knew I’d find you

there amidst the pots and pans

and a pungent stovetop sizzle:


redolent breakfast bacon, frying 

eggs and goldening pancake batter.


What were you seeing in your own dreams

lying there in your hospice bed,

watching with open eyes

Baudelairean flowers blooming of death?


Could you hear my final words, feel my hand’s

caress? Was there nothing left to summon up


the forms of things unknown?

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