Sunday Meeting – A Poem

Sunday meeting.
Outside
the remains of a thin mist
hovers
in the grassy hollows and
along the edge of the woods.

You are always so meticulous.
I believed you would understand.
This.
This is what you wanted.

I loved but
forgot
and then the clouds
so silver blue and heavy
and the leaves
orange and red
softened a horizon made
indistinct.

Her voice a sweet plum.

Close the distance.
Close the blinds.

Fresh cut the flowers lie
crushed on the floor.
Disrobed our world turns dark.
Each of us seek a dreaming
penance
yet she is instead only answered
by a phantom
chill
that bites
her delicate neck.

There should be a break in the weather.
But the seasons never really change.
Do they?

Sunday meeting.
The low sound of a train
calls up a past
ever
rising and falling in a static motion
we can’t escape.
There is little left
of that once was
and even less now to be gained.

Between us
then
will be to what we cling.

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