Wednesday, October 8, 2008

Now by Greg Warson



I told you once when we were young that
we would someday meet again.
Now, the years flown past, the letters
unwritten, I am not so certain.

It is autumn. There are toothaches hidden
in this wind, there are those determined
to bring forth winter at any cost.
I am resigned to dark blonde shadows

at stoplights, lost in the roadmaps of leaves
which point in every direction at once.
But I am wearing the shirt you stitched
two separate lifetimes ago. It is old

and falling to ash, yet every button blooms
the flowers of your design. I think of this
and I am happy, to have kissed
your mouth with the force of language,

to have spoken your name at all.

5 comments:

  1. Love
    is a tightly wound cord
    until it breaks
    and goes
    separate ways.

    ReplyDelete
  2. That poem made me cry. Too close to my heart I guess :-).

    ReplyDelete
  3. This is stunning. You find the most amazing poetry.

    How I long to pass this on. Instead, I feel the chill and jam my hands into my pockets.

    ReplyDelete

Hey, thanks for your thoughts and your time:>)