It’s not good to go rummaging through your poems
I find jewels among the cartons there
That cause me to sit in lovely silence
And forget the life I’m supposed to live.

I am surprised I hadn’t seen this one before
Or having seen it, and not believed it was
Meant for me, read in wounded envy
Wondering who could Stir
In you such beautiful words.

I left a rating, I think, which is rare of me;
But a comment for a poem so lovely
Would have betrayed what was then
My utter lack of insight. Of course
Now I see
I was he and he and he to whom
You referred, but such is
The damaged life that only
Hindsight opens blinded eyes

So I read you again, years later, and
Saw myself as you saw me. And
Knowing that you alone had caught
What I wanted most to be
Was no surprise, when I gave it thought.
But the follow-up was to know that had
It not been for you, there might be nothing
And all that you made me would have been sealed
With masking tape in these same cartons
To gather dust

We made no promises then
Not even continuance was assured
And yet, in small, strange ways
We endure. Our passions are
Unspoken now. Some are wisps on the wind,
More ethereal than real.
And yet, and yet…
In the quiet dialogues is
Sometimes still that poetry
We both wrote in the long-ago
In the silence of the night
In the caverns of the heart.

08/04/2009

Posted on 08/04/2009
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