Three Small Words

Elsewhere, I have it on good authority, 

clocks keep time --

the slow creep of mountains inching 

towards clarity, comprehension of

spring melt to trickle of river, 

winds along verdant valleys to sun- 

singed coasts -- the rudimentary basics

of a calculus we both seem to have failed. 

Perhaps this is how love was always meant

to unravel, or it could be

we are quite simply two of a kind, 

stars crossed in the heat of a moment

unlike that of others --

I won’t presume to know what odds 

make the likelihood of surviving another winter, 

if we manage to slip-slide the certain avalanche or 

if, when they dig us out in the spring, they’ll find

eight fingers clenched to the cold icicle of regret --

the answers to such questions don’t exist 

where time drifts on currents 

more opaque than the skins of glass

we traced along the line of rose carillons, 

bathed by the shadows of the sleeping spirits.

The poetry of our life together still inspires

chords beyond my ability 

to compose --

the landscape of three small words 

a horizon edging beyond the sunset.   

Ken e Bujold

Reviews

[Dave Brown]

Another gem of an offering only possibly threatened somewhat, at least out this way, by the prospect of yet another El Nino having been forecast