To the Elegant Woman Whom I May Resemble

Everything elegant was in her hands--
Your hand, for instance, was there;
A flowered plastic cup or a flower from the ground;
Her glasses, round and graceful, fingered delicately.
And it is in those memories of her (of
The two of you when first in love)
That quickens my pace for something elegant of my own.
Do you know the glimmer behind her still eyes,
Even now? Do you
Remember a set of still eyes veiled behind
Porcelain lace?

And it is those images of her
That startle and stun me:
That you see a bit of her--in me?
The place I'm standing is the place I'll never leave,
Because it is where she planted me
Like a flower in her ground,
Springing up
And safely grasped and fingered in her hands
(Which only hold all elegant things).