January Wedding
When half is dead
the other half goes wandering,
mouthing, "I will make a life.
I will make a life."
But how, poor wraith,
disembodied spirit,
visible ghost?
Upon a stone
your name is carved,
and you are waiting
for the date after the hyphen.
What lives is memory,
vivid, real, and envy
for the blindly unknowing.
Old habits return;
who cares now
or if a picture hangs
crooked on a wall?
Until you meet another
and you come together
like two skeletons
with a rattle of bones.
You smile, you touch, grateful
for the space you fill together.
The years wait like a book
unread, but we know
the ending.
Sue Scalf
http://www.members.aol.com/poetscalf
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