sorrow came by
a week ago sunday
and left without saying a thing
stole me a kiss-
from a bouquet of summers
cut from a garden
of red wintergreen

chiseled from stone –
were steps I remember
– laid to my fate
by running away
shone through the dark
as phosphorus wonder
and pulled through the weeds
by home –
the long way

so easy to tire
the moon hardly matters
words save no passion
for places between
gone is the ache
relieved by our falling
as sunlight to shadow –
when promised
to dream

. . .