From the Grave

Countless days
we walk together
in the gray half-light
to both ignore and reclaim time.

Sometimes it is dusk,
sometimes dawn,
and I can only tell
the hour
by whether I find you
young and beautiful
or frail and fading,

yet I am always
what I’ve become:
time weary and distant
from any touch.

It it an illusion,
a trick of the mind,
that calls you here
and more and more
I see only
your youthful gaze.

I fall further
into a sepia toned past
where I dream
all was safe

before the fire and falling
before the hard exile
before time separated me
from everything.

Through the Night

Pushing Through
for A.R.

The sunset is beautiful.
I seem to have forgotten
there are such colors.

Bright pink sky
and gold edged clouds
darken to crimson and violet,
fade to dusk.

I sit
through the wheeling panoply
of stars,
the horned moon’s
thin light

until chill
gray light of dawn,
white fog
among distant trees.