Memory of Anita

Autumn’s golden light
reminds me how she would burst,
“Daffodils bloom again.”

Copyright 2010 by M. D. Friedman.
Please visit www.mdfriedman.com to see more of M. D. Friedman’s work.

Nothing to Ask

I do not ask. I breathe






and the drenched spruces drip


drops, fresh circles within spreading rings






radiate in hypnotic grace


across the pond’s dim mirror. I breathe


in, welcome the air thrust from the eternal wind.






I do not ask why


the rain heavy Columbine dips


to brush the earth, sheds crystal beads


hung like glistening tears from the storm’s dark eye.






My father who loved old oaks and sunsets,


fresh picked sweet corn and overripe peaches,


died in a sparse white room, void of human blush,


of even the faintest pink of dusk. As the last wind


leaves, swirling its pale petals of light, there is nothing to ask.

Copyright 2010 by M. D. Friedman.
Please visit www.mdfriedman.com to see more of M. D. Friedman’s work.