Joy and the Magic Man

Over the years, Joy’s name
Seemed to fit her less and less,
Her spirit eroded by
A river of responsibilities,
Once supple skin scarred
By the acid touch of time,
Myopia pushing aside
The artistic visions of her youth.
She almost did not recognize him,
Black hair lightened into gray,
His slower steps assisted
By a cane that mirrored her own,
Nothing to gauge that he even saw her,
Much less remembered
The time when she was “his Joy,”
Back before she had developed
Any acumen at the craft of love.

He had been her Magic Man,
An alchemist whose tender touch
Turned her tears to drops of gold.
He sprinkled her life with wonder,
A belief that life was larger
Than she ever dreamed possible.
He taught her how to embrace freedom
In a sensuous dance of hearts
Uninterrupted by the outside world,
Two artists in love feeding
On the creative juices of the other,
Stoking a fire that overtook them,
Consuming and eventually leaving
Only smoldering embers discarded
In search of the next inspiration.

She set aside her brush
And oil paints long ago,
Arthritic hands and withered dreams
Unable to give shape to her visions,
But as she sweeps past him
On that cold January sidewalk
In her sensible shoes and sturdy coat,
Shadows of Joy and the Magic Man
Float in the fog of yesterday.