It Slips Away

by John E

How does it come to us, what we consider
held in memory, released by a glance?
A small glow over her shoulder’s shiver,
and how as it faded time disproved chance.

Sudden morning. She’s walked to the river.
Myself here, awash in the same sun’s dance.

Nothing is abrupt. Last season recedes
with chilly, disturbed and temperate needs.

Now, when I recall, by accident of sense
that morning I watched you, uncostumed
at water’s edge, alone, my common pretense
of slumber unquestioned, in our room
still — red mountain cabin, mute of these events …

Now alone, apartmented, anti-wombed:
why should I expect sunlight on your skin
to greet me, as I lie awake again?

Others may have lain there, honest, unlike us;
They’d rise together to tend to the flue,
the fireplace a cave where tempered gusts
made stars appear, and dance; and though they knew
it an erratic path to cinder dust
still remained as fire, resisted coming-to,

touched by each spark. For me? Casement and cold
water, ash and embers, quietly foretold.

© 2013 John E. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.