Voices on the Wind
by Kathy Cotton
For this anniversary I planned to bring you flowers:
a bouquet of favorite red roses to cascade
over our names, carved side by side above our wedding date
and flanked by digits of beginnings, endings—
my birth date followed by a tentative dash.
Yours, by finality.
But this year I bought no saddle of silks
to ride on the time-galloping back of black polished granite.
Instead I drifted from flower shop to dress shop,
where I bought this red sheath, hung incongruently now
with a row of jeans—an anniversary dress to decorate my closet,
a remembrance of your unfaded whisper:
I knew I was in love with you when you were eighteen.
I saw you sitting on the swing,
waiting for me, wearing a red dress.