You know how I feel
when you weep, even—
especially—when you tease.
Your bottom lip quivers,
like . . .
like the wild rose petals at the end
of our little road to the Folly
when they are touched by a chill
breeze from the north and shiver.
Your cheeks pinken too,
a bit, and your tears are real,
a shine and a promise of what
will be all better sometime—
before our future’s end.
But what makes me feel
what I feel when you weep
is that I know
just how well your lips,
and your expression
and the tears act out the joy
of teasing me these sixty years.
And I wonder, will I smile
the same bright tears when
you greet me and talk to me
after I have become naught?
Will I tease back? Will I, at last,
tease from the breath of some
lingering flutter, our shared
aurora of electrons?
