Wednesday

The Passing
A year ago today, I came to you.
But was I heard? Words dropped on arid ground
bloom not, not even once, they are as dust,
old ashes in my mouth, to stop me up.
For all your charm and wit, you fed me stones.
The waters of the North would have been warmer.
Yet even ice melts so the young may drink,
the strongest oaken bough knows when to yield.
Not you, no! You were granite. Yet I know.
The burrowing worm sees what you still hide.
The Aspens whisper sins that you don't dare
to voice, the small thrush sings it, every morn.

A year ago today, I chose my truth,
you chose unkindness. We broke. We parted.