Sunday Meeting – A Poem

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

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

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

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
yet she is instead only answered
by a phantom
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
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
will be to what we cling.

12 thoughts on “Sunday Meeting – A Poem

  1. “Her voice a sweet plum” is an evocative image, especially coming near the middle of the poem. The metaphor’s sweetness sets a strong contrast to the wistfulness. lovely poem.

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