As dry brittle leaves
scuttle past my feet,
and moth obscured street
lamps cast shadows faint,
the winter winds chase
disarray down the street,
across lines of time, and
weathered white paint.
Alone here I sit like a
ghost in town square,
upon a wood bench of love
deeply carved,
initialed by those who
once lingered there,
inscribing young promises
later gone starved.
Before the full moon of a
century ago,
before men’s titanic
arrogances,
this street was a meadow of
crystalline snow,
unstained by the blood of
retreating defenses.
I read of it ‘neath the
last witness to thee,
consoled at the base of
the mournful tree.
RLJ - 2009
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