That time between seasons
when it seems there never will
be leaves again, or the color
green; and drifting clouds
of white-tendriled seed,
or the sound of moving water;
when the heart doesn’t know
how long it must hold as it’s
swung across the bridge—
Is today the day I’ll fold
a letter for the last time,
the day you’ll climb down
from your tower of long-
held fears? At times I think
we’re finally learning to sit
in the quiet of this in-between,
to stop asking if what we’ve done
could ever have been enough.


In response to Via Negativa: Plea bargain.

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