All weekend you want to lift
The phone and call. You didn't
Rising early you went for a ride,
Picturing her still sleeping,
A Sunday sleep, deeply.
A casual call, about that oratorio.
At coffee time might have
Been made. It wasn't.
Arranging the first daffodils
in a cobalt blue jug
You thought of her in the garden,
Dirt beneath each pearly nail,
Clearing a pathway to summer.
At lunch with friends you wondered
If she'd have an afternoon stroll.
As darkness fell the book you read
Beside the fire you'd lit
Was exactly what you knew
She'd like to read. You might
Mention it next time you meet.

Pat Murgatroyd

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