Sunday, December 15, 2013


The moon—irregular edges in the fog means
the fall into winter, shadows of all we had.

A thin thread of red insinuates itself
through yellows, browns, low light
all a shiver in silver tones.

Lets burn the dust off the coils
get the heat going again.

You’re still here, years after.
I’m ready. Are you?

Karma, the cards say.
Who am I to argue with that?
Your allergy to cats notwithstanding.

Wait until his kids are grown I said but didn’t.
I gave up instead
had my fill of handsome
wild side intellectual thrills.

And sorrow. Now?

We’ll have a drink, laugh,
bask in our shared remembrance
of the past, what’s happened in between.

Our path, the thread,
intertwines again,
tempered this lifetime
by the most challenging loss of all
the one of infinite possibilities.