Some Time
December, 2020

 

Some Time, when summer

still existed, and winter made

no impossible demands

we met upon a hill

marching to the State House:

another, political,

impossible demand.

 

And when we loved,

another hesitant impossible

demand, we met

upon a hill our aging

selves, yet this was when

summer still existed, and

sultry night demanded more.

 

We did the best

we could, climbing and falling

in habits of seasons passing

when every winter required

response, and spring evoked

fantasies of blooms and heights.

To me you seem not dead

 

but merely in another room.

I shout Where’s my damn sweater

and you reply, Wear mine.