Small Regrets

By Roberta M. Roy

Grass pushes green

among the bones gnawed white by

discord and neglect.

Soft regrets on pale

chalk unprepared to subsume

to forgetfulness . . .

His poetic ways

still missed despite long years . . .

and his irony;

Our artless play in

broken Spanish, English, et francais . . .

withered and lost.

Leafing back in life,

I pause to remind myself

of no return path.

What’s done is done.

To Pepe . . .wherever he is .