Golden Girl

Her golden curls 

fall 

in soft spirals

over the meadow,

textures that grip my imagination

and tug at my heart

I see her form reclining

along the edge of fall leaves,

in the gold and red of the meadow.

She prepares a feast. 

A fascination of fungi, 
the beautiful,

the exotic

the elegant 
and the delicious.

Haunted

Her memory tugs

at my heart

like a trout not yet free.

 Even among

my favorite things,

I hear her voice

 among the ferns.

 

Surrounded by her

favorite green,

I am only then 

distracted

 from 

her memory. 

jsc