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.
2020
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