In my memory she is ethereal.
An All-American homecoming queen, blonde hair, blue eyes,
legs long enough to drive teenage boys to painful distraction.
She was generous, kind.
If you were her friend, you were friends all the way.
She wasn't caught up in incongruous John Hughes high school clichés.
She was always fully present.
She was my soft, unknowing, Muse.
She came to me last night in a dream.
She, just as she had always been,
her voice, a song all but forgotten.
We talked. Memories of times loved in parallel lives
to the furtive, brief, encounter I hold forever dear.
She's been gone from the world twenty-five years,
a victim of her own errant exploration.
This world is less without her.
So, tonight, as the planet spins
and the mad race runs on in blind endeavor,
I light a candle under a waxing moon and mourn anew.
Share This Poem