There is an art to remembrance
It is the space between the slightly parted lips
of the object of the sculptor’s desire,
the delicately molded
features, frozen
captured; caressed, not carved
It is the illusion of light on the painter’s canvas,
hours spent at the easel
shading, shifting
the carefully blended hues
until the sun’s scattered diamonds across the waves
radiate an imagined warmth
It is the hollow pause in every verse of the singer’s refrain
the lyrical longing
interrupted
by the breath drawn not for air alone
but for the courage to go on
the silence that speaks more than song

And I have taken no hands to clay
no brush to oil
no voice to a dirge
in your memory
have purged each moment from my mind
and yet you remain

preserved clarion