A moment, one,
Is all I captured of you.
As a poet, as a painter, as a writer
I have failed in my task of depicting, of pausing
In the moments that I need to.

Now all I have is this poem,
In which I describe your face as you leave,
Barely noticeable in its pallor,
With grey eyes that brim with wetness
Like the eyes you saw in my petunias,
You are a flower at your worst.

And maybe other than that,
I see the tiredness, skin wrinkled like your hand-me-downs,
Your bitten nails pinching the bridge of your nose
To relieve the stress I give you.

A moment, one,
But enough.