Evening Porch
I went out to an evening porch
because a bur bit at my heart.
I could not tell if it was you
or your loss that stung so smart.
The crickets rubbed a murmur synched
to a wholeness I could barely hear;
my forehead had to listen hard
harder even than my ears.
The breeze that rose from somewhere North
felt a bit like fingertips;
you too were raised in a place of cold
but rarely touched my face, my lips.
And yet this sweep of ending day
whose deep’s deep blue except where green
speaks to me of you, of you,
and means what I would have it mean:
that you loved me and I loved back,
that foreheads can be made to hear
(as now beneath the crickets’ arc
the stream’s rush cushions far and near)
so that on the planks I walk
beside a door that leads to light,
beside that blue that you’re blurred in,
I find a seat that bears with night
and try to write there till it’s dark,
write there even in the dark,
letters that feel their way along
this burdened page, unburred heart.
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Here’s a poem for my own prompt – Going, Going, Gone, on Real Toads.
Painting is mine, though not sure it goes with the poem! All rights reserved.
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