Milonga sentimental

Old heart, tired heart
counting this cold morning
the beads that gather on the grass—

Sometimes it’s hard
to keep track of how many
promises you made, fueled by hope

of their full return: each time
felt real, was real— O how you
wanted to empty your draw-

string purse of all
your savings, and spend them
on the greatest love of all.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.