I open the tiny change purse
of memory in which coins
jingle like the merriest

music, because you live
in that happy sound.
You were shiny bright

like new pennies, which
also no longer exist,
though now and then

a sparkling one appears,
pressed into my palm
by a young woman

about to make my sandwich.
And I study it like the copper
jewel I know it to be,

the color of your once-vibrant
hair, tucking it
into my wallet, feeling

rich, the missing you
replaced by your
equally bright smile

warming me as it did
each time you caught sight
of me for the first time,

as if I’d hung the moon,
you liked to say,
as you always did

and still do
for me.

•••

(In memory of Georgann Turner on what would have been her 75th birthday)