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pants poem
I wore the jaunty thin island-print
pants you made me, Holly, today,
this warm October 3rd, first time in years,
tho every Spring they come out again
to sit on the shelf with shorts, loved
only more since you left us. Faded
like a filmy wash's coated their old brightness,
they still say "fun". I need to sew
a pocket seam hole, and somehow
cinch their too-big elastic--- all day
they fell down, each time exposing
me remembering you, the gift.
No doubt they'd look sad, or me in them,
to these clean people at the park,
passing me and the river, happy
in the breeze of the last summer eve,
had I not switched to denim
to stroll here myself, and sit,
and tell not actually you,
but close enough, how fully
you're with me, and the well-worn pants
are not sad, just beautiful,
like these long, long shadows
from the light that's still not gone.
pants you made me, Holly, today,
this warm October 3rd, first time in years,
tho every Spring they come out again
to sit on the shelf with shorts, loved
only more since you left us. Faded
like a filmy wash's coated their old brightness,
they still say "fun". I need to sew
a pocket seam hole, and somehow
cinch their too-big elastic--- all day
they fell down, each time exposing
me remembering you, the gift.
No doubt they'd look sad, or me in them,
to these clean people at the park,
passing me and the river, happy
in the breeze of the last summer eve,
had I not switched to denim
to stroll here myself, and sit,
and tell not actually you,
but close enough, how fully
you're with me, and the well-worn pants
are not sad, just beautiful,
like these long, long shadows
from the light that's still not gone.
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May I ask who is Holly?
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