 Photo by Robin Rolder It’s not that he can’t walk up the stairs. He just wonders if he should. He reflects at the fifth step. She will be waiting at the table with two hands holding the tea cup, as if the cooled porcelain could still give her warmth, as if his embrace could, either. The frayed edges of his jeans slosh like mops, heavy with the weight of water while the toe of his boot pushes the snow back and forth. With seven steps, she’ll see him then. He’ll be seven hours late-- again. Seven years of cooled porcelain. Published at Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY (2/19/16)
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 Photo by Robin Rolder She evokes in me the wanting of poets, stillness and beauty on verge of escape where heart and pen unite and linger on words and visions too close to relate. I drink in her silence, embrace the pain of memories too far gone to negate, left to ponder why she, of all angels, did choose me to haunt, to bless, and to bate. She left me singing this lover’s refrain and dwells each day in my woeful state, evoking in me the wanting of poets, stillness and beauty on verge of escape. (Originally published in my chapbook, One Thing Leads to Another.)
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The poet lights the light and fades away. But the light goes on and on.
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