Six years ago we said hello,
neophytes in worded verse.
You’d think life would have been
a rehearsal for this gauntlet,
a daunting pace, a poetic race
through April’s thirty days.
Word plays and metered rhyme
will pass the time as we mark
the moment we embarked
on this partnership as poets.
A challenge to begin that has
kept us joined in purloined poetry.
We’ve carried the torch to light
each others way, a beacon
that spans an eerie Great Lake and back.
The distance seem massive
as the years pass and at some future
long last, it will have passed
from memory. I miss your words,
and it seems absurd to say it,
but it plays in my head. Your poems
are not dead, nor do they sleep.
They merely rest for another April’s play.
Until that day you return, I will yearn
to hear one more rhyme, one last time.