Untitled III

already I miss our sun;
and days—endless
in your summertime smile

they are too few now—the memories, vague facsimiles of youth
when we feared not;
porous vessels, aged prematurely in transitive meditation
when we loved—strenuously;

I trace each delicate edge, pausing;
reconstructing ever mores and forever afters
but not knowing how to let go

years might pass; isolation

shall I then prepare for slumber,
finding no solace without sunshine?
for no strange flower yet grows—
as my garden has forgotten the seasons