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
heavy with the weight
of water while the toe of his boot
pushes the snow back
With seven steps,
she’ll see him then.
He’ll be seven hours late--
Seven years of cooled porcelain.
Published at Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY (2/19/16)
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.)