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 Four Poems Concerning Love

Cora's Quilt


No one's left to love it more.
She made it to be used.
Still I'm guilty to discover
this tear in the material,
the first sign of its age.

Back then,
flour, sugar, grain,
and even fertilizer
came in colored, patterned,
cotton bags, as big as 50 pounds.
All the bread she must have baked
to have sufficient pieces
for just this one,
this tumbling boxes quilt.

after years of use,
I am, as well,
less durable,
more patchwork.




World War II : My Parents


How hard
how very hard
to lie together in the dark
before the morning train
knowing he'd be gone
possibly for years
maybe forever.

I vividly recall
my misery on the day
my future husband left me
in my parents' sunny driveway
to go a state away
for a few weeks of college
before wedding--
so hard to step apart
even though no stranger
was making plans to kill him.






Is there a scientific explanation
equating hearts with love?
When love arrives
and drives our every move,
is it our heart that steers?
No, it's the single-minded head
instead that bends one to another
like tide to moon.
if love is lost,
Isn't it the brain
that mourns most
and maybe tells the heart
to stop its beating?




No Question


Out of the blue-
black bedroom
"What is the point of living?"
not from depression
not as philosopher
but ever the logician.
The prompt reply of
would not
have pleased
him much.

Now a different
dark, a different
room, a different
bed reminds. . . .

I was correct.
He was my reason.