Our poetry Editor Ira Maine has lost his wife.  These are his thoughts.

All the World.
I REMEMBER-
Your glorious fried-egg bosom
And the way you danced,
Out of your head, oblivious,
As if you had become the music
And all melody depended
On your giving it life.

I REMEMBER-
How you held me and tried
To make me move as you moved,
Patiently coaxing, drawing me out.
But I was awkward and clumsy,
Hopelessly lacking your grace.
How could I not love you then?

I REMEMBER-
How fiercely you held me, made me listen,
Made me aware that even I,
Miraculously, had my own music,
Even if it wasn’t in my feet.
How could I not love you?
I remember  so many things…
But this above all-
Since that first day in Islington,
When you walked down those stairs,
I have been enthralled, captivated,
Enchanted by you.
You have been my life, my love,
My compassed world,
Where I am rich beyond imagining.
Richer, little flower, by far,
Than all the world.

Ira Maine, January 2016