The winter sky reflects the river today,
as it always does this time of year,
each gray-blue sheet of ice
The narrow shadows lengthen, drawing
fenceposts around the empty spaces.
Everything becomes clinical fact,
every step taken a punctuation mark,
though what has been said and what has
been left out remain unclear,
hovering like my breath before me.
How is it that I cannot see you now, yet
feel you closer than this wind,
this hardened earth, the bare limbs
of trees reaching like roots in reverse?
All I know today is that we are not made
merely of things that happened --
for better or worse -- nor the way
we smiled, or didn't, in an old photograph;
we are closer, I say, to the light itself
coming through the dusty window blinds,
holding us there, frozen as this day,
making us believe we are the subject,
that we are the ones standing still.
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