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.
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