“My poignant luxury…” ~ Emily Dickinson
When we returned, all the leaves of the fig
had fallen, and those of the Japanese maple;
the bare ground, covered in tearable
wrappers of the after all easily shed.
All day a glimmering sky spoke in fragments
as if time were sending postcards: how we walked
by the river, how the wind slipped the taste
of moss and salt under our tongues; how I called
when you walked too fast, how at night on the cool
sheets you always fell asleep before I did.
In response to Via Negativa: Late Bloomer.