Do the flowers change as I touch your skin?
They are merely buttercups. No sign of death in them.
The words reverberate silently summoned up
By the sight of buttercups glowing in the sun
Though my imperfect recall compacts it into one line
Remembering the start of a love poem recited by my friend
Remembering him as a giant cherub so full of life
Unashamed and unafraid to celebrate a gay poet
My friend who so loved to perform the spoken language
Flashing his delight in a smile after each reading
Those days are long gone but his presence is with me still
The way his mouth caressed the syllables of sound
The way he rocked and rose up on his toes speaking
Hearing his voice like the singer he was
We were young and innocent embracing life experience
Untouched by the hard lessons learned later
Unaware the boils on his back would eventually kill him
Presaged in the way he winced when I last hugged him
And so the words in that poem have grown on me
Retaining just these two lines that I keep in memory
Like certain other heartfelt expressions left us by that poet
That speak to my older self in a kind of sweet sad way
