Trinket

I know her not and love her all the same.

I.

I leave no fragments of the life forgone
as I traverse the woodland afternoon —
tree to tree, hour to hour, forever.

Abandoned are the words I never said,
the murmurs breathed with nary more than a whimper.

On the bark of the trees I think to leave a mark,
then say: "I spare you, friend. God made you too."

II.

A small bistro boutique atop a hill,
oasis in the burst of wilderness.

The soup and sandwich shall take twenty minutes
(a movement of a Mahler symphony),
too long to nurse a lemon Perrier.

I drink instead the image of a woman,
large glasses perching on an upturned nose,
thin lips that purse before they softly speak,
long fingers tapping on the register.

III.

She is an angel, I am sure of it.

Am I allowed to bother her again,
though I have nothing more to ask or order?

I take my pen and visit her in here.