Sawed In Half Poem by S. R. Lavin

The truck I’m in rumbles across the grand, rolling green hills
of Argylshire, New York.. Crossing a small bridge, below I see
mossy islands in the nape of the river. Everywhere are wild blossoms,
foxglove (I think) , in royal purple, which brings my wife back to me,
as if I could touch her forearm, or see her smile, or catch the sparkle
of her lovely eyes. Most days, it’s like this.

Love has a way of conquering death, though honestly,
I don’t know how it happens, or why a thousand times a day
she pours out of me.

I keep her picture by my bed, smiling, as ever, even as she suffered,
and yielded up her life. How much I wanted to do for her
on any given day, a thousand times, a thousand ways. Every day.

Am I like the man who was sawed in half
and put to death because of what he loved?

Is there some other way I can live without her?