The Presence of the Past

Time is not linear
Perhaps that is why
You appeared today, twenty-seven years after your death,
Disguised as a small piece of amber glass,
A remnant of your craft.


And what is the message you intend?


Outside my window is a flower surprised by frost
Its frozen bud like the promise of love
Now, even after days of winter weather
Its sits confidently plump
As if to say
	I will still unfold
	You can’t kill love