Elegy
for Holly Friesen
in memory of Walt Pascoe
I try to paint
how your hand
in mine holds heat.
It's cold now,
your fire—
but I'm not through
tomorrow, and
every brush stroke's
like the saw blades
you wielded,
working the surface,
exploring what's deep.
© 2016 Maureen E. Doallas
Tuesday, January 12, 2016
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