Not was, not forgotten,
In expiry within our thoughts,
Eternal within our heart's remembrance.
Our love can be said a December sonnet;
The sweetest poems are never finished--
Just abandoned--left to stubborn persistence
Not wanting the story to fade, like forgotten pages
Of a rare book, uncut, unhandled,
The newness growing to cream,
To tan, to honey brown, to umber-dust.
My lack begets my sessions of longing
That never brings to closure, and never brings to end
A song begun of best intent,
A song now whispers in the wind.

03/10/2011

Posted on 03/11/2011
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