Times Geography

I don't write many love poems, and it is a stretch to call this poem one. It is from my self-published chapbook Searching for Cranes.


Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. - Henry David Thoreau

Behind the waterfall,
reds and blues sparkle and shine.

Behind the rushing stream,
the rainbow forms and dissolves.

Leaving the illusion
the droplets flow downstream.

I emerge from the river.
Stride to dry land.

A fire of driftwood warms me.
Logs burned cannot grow again.

I cannot cross time’s geography to when
I held you tight and felt the beat of your heart.

I collect my belongings from your carport,
Leave my key, and float downstream.