KEEPSAKE

It was nothing.
Thoughtlessly collected,
a trifle foolishly and even furtively.
Now it haunts me.
I did not ask to keep
the memory; I did not even know
the memory would keep.

It was nothing
but an impulse,
a gathering of the moment,
lit by spring shadows,
when we stole
a secret fleeting glance
from one another,
belonging, as we did, elsewhere.

It is nothing.
It lies pressed within
this slim and long-forgotten volume,
bookcased, but telling.
Now, not then,
of promised fruit.
It is the apple flower,
pure and white,
soft-scented.

It is nothing.
But an unsung requiem
for what never was.
A keepsake
of the vanished hour.