For Lyndah..

On the wall above the bookcase,
Hangs a portrait of my friend.
Captured in her youth of innocence,
Frozen in that place in my mind's eye.
But I have seen her future since then,
Those old yesterdays have passed forever.
Threads of silver now lace the long black mane,
The stitches holding years of weariness and worry in place.
The callused hands of time have gently stroked her features,
And have left a regal sense of grace behind,
Giving authority to her quiet voice.

The one thing that has not changed,
I think, is the wonder behind those eyes.
So fast to catch the little things,
That most folks take for granted:
The music in a grandchild's laugh,
The awesome silence of a storm moving in,
Before the lightening cuts the clouds in two,
Causing them to bellow out in thunderous pain.
The sweet smell of new-mowed grass,
In the cool evening, with just the hint of onion.
The warmth of her hand in his, sitting in the silence,
Rocking gently to and fro as they smile into the darkness.
A loving hand that cups her breast at night,
And calls out goose bumps even under warm quilts.
The fire of a lover's breath on the nape of her neck,
Causing the flow of liquid heat to escape her.
Hungry hands that dart across the table,
Returning with the perfect biscuit.

The wind chimes in my window give a song now and then,
A gift from her so long ago when our friendship was young.
It gives me cause to think of her and smile at days gone by,
And I wonder if she stops to think just what a friend she has.