there is so much of him
here, in this white room,
my home
my thinking place
there he is,
in the twelve
cut paper circles
he placed
on the ceiling
above my bed
on each of these
he drew felt-tipped flowers
gave them all
fictitious names
and me the comfort
of a love once shared
the papers edges curl now
and shadows from the
upturned light
give them wings, as if
delicate creatures
that might take flight
at any moment.