FOR FRANCIE

by Jock Jacober 

Perhaps real love blooms only in old age

when the sieves of time have sifted 

fallen petals: passions, 

after the stamen and the pistil  

wither in the season late. 

I forgive you becomes the truth.

We can inhabit our flaws, vulnerable,

unguarded sorrow, a comfort.

Anger shelved and regret.

Too damaging to our hearts.

Now let me grasp your hand.

Our bruises and scars 

a map of pathways

we shared, then lost,

the trails where we went, each

alone to be in our own gardens.