Tue, 02 Jun 2015
Minutes – stacked each on each, slack,
as summer’s deckchairs on a winter’s beach...
framed by a window decked out in Breton lace –
a setting sun beset by shreds of errant cloud, stutters
its dying circle of brightness...surpassing a Matisse.
Ink may fade, and paper age under the sun's
unrepentant light as a silent epiphany leadens
chimes from a small, white church, pierce
the middle distance; follows a quiet, more hushed
than snowfall on a frozen pond –
such a quiet, only follows the ceasing
of a tolling of a bell,
and I know you will never get to read this,
but with each word you are there between the lines
as if words are air
and I will write and write, and write...
if this is what keeps you
a little alive.