winter was ne’er
for the fragile of heart
and yet I remember
so clearly the day
clouds were laid over
a hole in the sky
blackbirds were telling
of lovers by name
a destiny curs’ed
and frayed
unknown to believers
weaved into faith
when last I was here
– as time
without place
as touch unrepented
warmed by the still –
a blossom untested
til now
november
was never the story untold
repeated in
chorus ten thousand
tongues old
played for the one
without memory of less
truth held in check
by the coming back
round
to dreams we’ve
forgotten
somehow

. . .