. . .
i can only write poetry
about new love
because of the endless possibility,
the abundance
of white matter
covers the page
like dark rain, february snow.
old love is like autumn and needs to be felt
through an open widow
red leaves, falling sunlight
spiderwebbing
trying to touch the
ungrowing earth with muddy toes.
old love gets under your fingernails.
it dwells deep within your darkest self,
steals thoughts, fells eyelashes,
turning world to chalk.
when yes, i’d trade the rain for your hands,
and swap a star for each of your eyes and ears
but dear that would be
so unkind to the weather.
(walking out into the evening
city street,
i realize i’ve forgotten
both you and my umbrella).
old love, the watchful Artisan,
shapes us and
turns us into clocks:
understanding nothing, needing time to tell.
[image courtesy of yunphoto.net]
