Where is she
	In whose hair
	I washed my hands?
	She, whose smile
	Salved the wounds
	Inflicted by a world
	So little understood?
	She, whose warmth
	Filled my soul
	From within
	Against the chill
	Of lonely nights
	Following empty days?
	I need her now.
	But she is gone
	Like the blossom's scent,
	Blown by the restless wind.
	Who can reassemble
	A smell?  Who can
	Find my love?

	4/21/76

© Fred O'Bryant. All rights reserved.

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