The Relic

Very few of Ben's poems were handed to me on a tidy sheet of paper.   Usually they were folded.  Often they were wet.  Frequently they were stained. Mostly there were a few scratched out lines. Several had math problems on them.  Once the paper was a paper towel from the bathroom floor at work where he was sitting.

This one was mildewed and torn when he gave it to me.  He had forgotten it the day he wrote it and he'd been drenched in a soaking rain on his run home.

I call it THE RELIC because with the words that are missing due to damage it looks extremely old.

The Relic

Starlight filters down the night sky.

The wind…onward endlessly

The fire.., warm and …

Sounds of night speak quietly

She lies warm upon my shoulder

Her hair streams softly on my brow

Her breath soft, my arms enfold her

Night is… and … is now.