On this day in a backyard garden in Brooklyn
you married my mother sixty four years ago,
your face full of seriousness and responsibility
My mother held onto your hand all day.
She was nineteen, girlish.
that first date she took you for a ride on a bicycle.
She was your happiness you said,
always seeing life as good.
You, more tragic, more poet,
war had already crowded out the good and the innocent.
If you're here,
send us a bouquet of roses.
I want to believe you are here, somewhere between the air and the sun,
close at hand, reachable.
I have an image of reaching my hands out to you,
but my hands always disappear into the air, your form escapes.
I can't hold onto it.
It's another prayer of surrender, I'll keep knocking at surrender's door,
one day she'll let me in.
I pray for the beautiful soul that you are
to travel wide open to all.
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