Maybe, perhaps, tomorrow
I’ll take that walk in the pristine woods
To clear my mind of all entrapments
And enchantments, you being
Highest hoist on that petard, and there
Amongst the trees and leaves,
Now merely brushed with verdant promise
I’ll get perspective.

I suspect the river will ask
Why I’m here so early in the season
And disgruntled at my trespass
Kick up winds and waves
Which will sully my shoes
And chill my bones
And cause me to bring my head
Back into the moment.

This can’t be love, or even limerence
If it goes on so unrequitedly
And the honesty I cannot speak
Is aided and abetted by the truths
You dare not, one way or the other,
Say out loud. Well, I get that, but
Living in the in-between is no
World for either of us to dwell;
All it does is lead to ruminations
Of the kind which may fire a poet’s words
But do little for his heart.

Ah, but Spring is the time for such
Meanderings into regrets and miracles,
Both of which swirl in my head without
Mitigation. I am not yet at the point
Of wishing this all away, but I am
Past the point of believing it
Might ever happen.

And yet, I will walk the lonely trails
Anyway, still blighted with the detritus
Of the hard, slow-dying season
And wish beyond all wishes
That is you who were walking here
Beside me
And you whom I embraced
At every pause in the conversation

04/15/2011

Posted on 04/15/2011
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