Poetry by Sharon Whitehill
Poinciana, Your branches speak to me of love.
Buddy Bernier
The mellow close of a Florida day,
seats reserved on the wraparound porch
of a renovated Victorian manse:
a celebrative meal with my sister and Rick
before they head north for the season.
Alone on my side of the table,
I mirror their mutual delight
at the flamboyant tree across the road.
All of us awed by its scarlet-orange blossoms
ablaze in the pre-sunset light.
Snapping a series of photos,
I yield to the impulse
to sling my arm over Rick’s shoulder—
this brother-in-law, for so long a vexation,
gentled now as the soft evening air.
I lift my wine in a toast to the evening,
the bright-burning tree,
and our season together.
Now here comes Linda, our friend,
flashing a ring: I got married!
Though her exuberance fades
on hearing my news.
I was afraid of that, she sighs,
when I only saw three of you here.
A comment that crystallizes our mood.
The Portuguese call it saudade:
the sweet wistfulness of reluctant goodbyes,
honed to an edge by our silent awareness
of one empty chair at the table.
Sharon Whitehill is a retired English professor from West Michigan now living in Port Charlotte, Florida. In addition to poems published in various literary magazines, her publications include two biographies, two memoirs, two poetry chapbooks, and a full collection of poems.
