Meeting

I scatter marigold petals
to guide you home. There is
humming in the air – a fragment
of a song you used to sing –
rising and falling with wings
of bumblebees. Pipe smoke
twists out of a bonfire. I
remember, you reading
Le Morte d’Arthur in a cubist
patterned armchair. I could
bring to mind so many things
but, they are reflections
blurred by the wind. My
memories are dried seed
heads. Crusty, crescent
moons of insignificant seed.
Such small things and yet
steeped with the potential
of infinite, orange beacons.