Heather
Heather
A dream, shimmering, mirage like,
But never completely gone.
Honey hair,
Comfortable where she had come from.
Moneyed, but she wore it well.
Artistic-long fingers,
Creative gauzy eyes—dreamy.
Art at high end, very private women’s college.
Maybe I should have known -
Maybe I didn’t want to -
Shades into the future drawn closed.
Days exploring the fringes of youth and desire,
And dreams before the fracture
Of differences –upper end New York society,
raw earnest naïve Midwest.
Unable to connect the dots.
Saw her once again, outside of dreams,
That spring afternoon,
In St Patrick’s Cathedral.
As I stood in the right hand side, aisle 48
Supported by alcohol and the fluted pillar,
I watched her glide by, in her veil
To the nave where her father had laid before her.
There to join another.
And when I tried to call out,
“objection”!
Nothing came out.
Named Heather,
she is now carried
only in my mind.
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