From the window,
I watch two geese
in the yard—one flies north;
the other hesitates,
flies south. Love,
we haven’t loved
in so long—
the cherry petals
blush and fall
from their branches,
a few notes still cling
to the wind chime.
I bend to lift
a book from your face,
press a kiss
to your collarbone,
turn out the lamp,
the moon a lone drop
of pearl. Do you think
the geese might circle back?
I touch a faint path of stars
through the window. Today
I have no
new stories—
only the mirror’s
whisper of a crease
from my brow
to my hairline,
the parentheses
framing my lips
growing deeper.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 22, Issue 1.
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