37 Degrees

By: William Fung – Class of 2015

Amidst the falling pieces of summerlight you smiled
A secret joke teasing the corners of your lips
And your fingers were sunlight, slipping through my hand
Leaving behind 37 degrees of warmth

At night we sat close to the river as it whispered,
“Let it be, let it be,” and raised our hands up to the sky
To snatch the myriad stars from their thrones and
Set them in the midnight river of your hair

In sleep you always dreamed and I could see you soar
Though once awake you always said you had no wings
But you could not wash the streaks of cloudmist from your hair
And 37 degrees of birdsong cried music all around you

So it should not have surprised me when you flew again
With all your snow-white hair, and wrinkled smile,
And at last did not return but instead with unseeing eyes
Went to dream amongst the flowers that paint the earth with stars

But still upon this bed for two, alone, I hold your hand
While outside the trees strum upon the window, “Let it be,”
And though I find your fingers to feel your warmth,
There is only memory and its 37 degrees of solitude

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