I've also put this on the Grief Poetry page. :)
The Working Fairy and the Dancing Fairy
The working fairy and the dancing fairy
loved their home in our California garden.
Roses; persimmon scarlet and butterscotch,
a river made of cut glass flowing through,
night lit with imaginary shimmer.
Dainty footsteps wafting mint scent
as she danced to the sound of his hammer
building dream ladders by day
to climb softly each night
to peek in window corners
as we slept.
Husband and Wife.
They smiled at our large tangled shapes,
soft and warm with synchronized breath.
It was easy to be guardian fairies then.
When you died and I moved to New York City.
the dancing fairy convinced the working fairy
to find us once again and drink of my tears.
They do not understand Central Park.
It is too big and they are lost.
You everywhere and myself nowhere,
or is it myself everywhere and you nowhere?
Dream ladders can’t reach apartments,
even as low as the second floor.
The working fairy has put down his tools
to carry the dancing fairy up Madison Avenue.
She limps now.
His wrist hurts and their wings are dusty.
The working fairy tries to amuse his love on city streets.
He kisses her tears and soothes her,
whispering that only by being lost
can you be found.
How, she wonders, can she be found
when she is slowly forgetting the dance
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