There is a yellow house in the country
in whose garden the nightingale still sings
Though the poet is dead, the bird who sang of death
returns with melodies, on easeful wings.

A lock of hair the many colors of a rainbow,
the poet's love received
remains in the room where first it was shorn;
An heirloom, its history half-believed,
its strands now faded and it's ribbon worn.

On wood floors, through squares of flickering sun
I felt his footsteps move, as if the troll
-whimsical troll, he called her- was not done
with making mischief to amuse herself.

I saw him clip that tousled lock of hair,
and though he did not offer it to me,
I felt that I was privileged, standing there,
and took his gesture for my legacy.

SAS