NEEDLES OF PINE
I turned
and you were gone.
Clusters of blue hydrangea
and the scent of sweet privet,
were all that remained.
The cobblestones I’d traversed
for so many years,
seemed threatening.
A police officer asked,
‘are you okay?’
Suddenly,
a whiff of pine reminded me,
of a pillow I’d had in Vermont.
It was filled with prickly needles,
offering a certain scent
of solace.
I turned
but you were gone.