fragile falls
the eager first
to raise our hopes again
to fill the empty lines
ahead with verse
– a rhyme
tho none would notice
the way
I spoke your name
while tender
curved a hand
against my heart
souvenirs
are taken in
folded to the crease
memorized
as season –
year by year
til only one remembers
well enough
the story goes
of ways
the words were whispered
– now again
in the silent song
of morning light
truths are laid together
– a softer line
than e’er a rhyme
could touch
. . .
. . .
The Reluctant Poet 