Maybe March

The first time that she came here
(God, how long ago was that?),
The leaves were budding. Spring
Had just begun, and hope had entered
Both of us. Still young, we capered
Underneath the branches still too
Bare to leave us feeling we were
In a forest. Where we were
Was unimportant. We were side
By side. That is how it's often been.
The last time that she came, it
Was December. Everything was
Dead, and we, too long apart,
Too broken by our failing marriages,
Did everything we could to coax
A little life from what had died.
We failed, but she is coming back,
And I've resolved to bring
The thrill, the sudden shock
Of energy we knew as youths
To us again. I want her
Here, but do not want her
Burdened by the winter's woes.
I'll have her wait to come when
Leaves begin to reappear.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 42 times
Written on 2020-01-01 at 13:00

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