“It’s a sweet clover year” he said
and I thought of you again
in that other sweet clover year when you came to visit.
My best friend thirty years and three thousand miles ago.
A smile, a hug, and the years dropped away
and we walked by the creek looking for fossils.
The sweet clover was in bloom
and you stroked the mustard yellow blossoms,
collected some to dry,
said they were good for something or other,
some sort of homeopathic remedy.
And then you were gone.
And the years flowed by
but the sweet clover never seemed to bloom so profusely.
Never sent its scent into my open window.
I called, sent a letter, but somehow
I lost you again.
Then one day I typed your name into a search engine
and there you were,
smiling from your obituary page.
Seems you died of cancer not long after our visit.
Did you know?
I think you did.
Thank you for the moments you shared.
It’s a sweet clover year again
and I think of you.