Like the waves in your hair, the curls
of your plant “Harley” are spreading
wide into summer, joining the wind
that skims across the farm.
And on your piano, Beethoven
relaxes with Clementi,
waiting quietly for any Italian
phrases that might be carried in
on the current.
Although you are not here,
these scenes bring you to me
every morning, like the lapping tide
from the big ocean far away.
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