(for Siv)
Fall
Keeping shadows at arm’s length
while the streetlights still flicker
is the only way I know
that I understand the dark.
While the streetlights still flicker
I come to realize
that I understand the dark –
we have not kissed since morning.
I come to realize
the soft Earth’s quietude.
We have not kissed since morning;
the street is empty.
The soft Earth’s quietude
is the only way I know.
The street is empty,
keeping shadows at arm’s length.
Winter
Promises of mid-morning snow
curl twilight blues away –
I boot crunch across past-green,
revealing gray pallor of new December.
Curl twilight blues away
like peeling paint,
revealing gray pallor of new December —
and a cold snap blows like glass.
Like peeling paint,
frost does not forgive or bend.
A cold snap blows like glass,
and the fickle wind whispers.
Frost does not forgive or bend.
I boot crunch across past-green,
and the fickle wind whispers
promises of mid-morning snow.
Spring
There is no poetry
in the measured way
the floor creaks
when she comes to bed.
In the measured way
I unravel myself
when she comes to bed –
I have been waiting all day.
I unravel myself.
She does not know
I have been waiting all day
for this.
She does not know
the floor creaks.
For this,
there is no poetry.
