Ellipsing, Elapsing

Monday, February 02, 2009

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By June the season will be gone
if we don’t write it this minute
we will never write it

even here hiding in the forest of your absence
I ask for no more than blank paper

Trees lean in to venture that I may wish
for a flutter of letters, or a scoop of arms
but I ask for no more than blank paper

soon the cart will trail under the open sky
all salty streaks wiped away by the leaves

Your gift of fallowness
will die out in the hot sun
and the season of love will be gone

if we don’t write it this minute
we will never write it

We will recall the calm handshake
but not the hug, the season was short
and what was it that happened

leaving not even a fine line
etched on the palm?


This poem first appeared in Issue 1 (Nov. 2007) of Cha

Filed under : EDITION  - Special Cha Edition 

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