I’ve no overcoat but this early
December night begs no
Forgiveness dropping from above
What comes naturally to winter
While tossing around brief gusts
of cutting Canadian Winds.
Both of us dressed like heirs
To something nearly Divine
And we were young, to whom
The world belonged.
We saved our words for the
Decades to come when stolen
Looks under darkened lights
And between burning candles
Would no longer suffice.
And yet what might be left
Unspoken speaks the loudest
In wisdom and echoing clarity.
Reflection casts its truth in colored
Blacks and whites and so perhaps
December had been dining with us
As I have never been more chilled.
And your expressions were deathly pale.
29 July 2005