, , , , , , ,

was never yours
to carry
never mine to touch
the distance to forever
from a moment
neath the oaks –

a perfect afternoon
for falling

was not for me
to squander
your name upon my lips –
the taste
of sunday morning
on my tongue

was never meant
for whispers –
search the night for me
come before
the frost is
melt away

what we knew
was left for knowing
in every moment
we begin

. . .