Red Shoes

You stood there
in the dappled light,
dark dress and jacket,
body slight.
You smiled - at me -
though years and miles
had separated us
from college lives.
You were sixty,
modest and well-bred
yet the shoes you wore
were crazy-apple red,
like our joy
each time we met,
bubbling into mirth
that so often went
untempered by
a proper etiquette:
we danced in rain
and sang duets
across the meadow
hemmed with trees
where you now sleep.
We jumped in leaves
and slid down
snowy graveyard hills,
shivering, exultant,
laughing still.
When, on that lucky day,
we meet again,
I expect red shoes and
laughter in the rain.