04-16-2017, 01:24 PM
After Autumn
I could convince myself
it was the connectionÂ
that made her voice crackle
like dry leaves underfoot.
I could pretend that her laugh
didn't drain the color from the world.
Twenty years and she had only just left
dancing shoes and underwear in my car.
Nothing had changed. Nothing
remained. We sat monochrome
across the table over uneaten sandwichesÂ
unable to fill the hollownessÂ
of cheeks and years and cancer, only prayers
to die rising like wind through leafless branches.
I could convince myself
it was the connectionÂ
that made her voice crackle
like dry leaves underfoot.
I could pretend that her laugh
didn't drain the color from the world.
Twenty years and she had only just left
dancing shoes and underwear in my car.
Nothing had changed. Nothing
remained. We sat monochrome
across the table over uneaten sandwichesÂ
unable to fill the hollownessÂ
of cheeks and years and cancer, only prayers
to die rising like wind through leafless branches.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson