Wednesday, November 26, 2008



the wind comes up,
turns your name on its side,
carrying its soft two syllables
off with a gust,
and i wonder,

what will i call you now?

though you seem the same,

birds at home in your cupped hands,
wolves asleep across your bare feet,
the changing color of your autumn hair
catching the same shimmer of cold sun

while all the while,
wine kissed lips murmur assurances,
intoxicating me with the nom de plume
flowing from your mouth

knowing all too well, though,
rivers wait, patient,
in recognition of art beyond landscape,
as the ripple across their lengths
whispers the name you gave away
to a world beyond my reach

and so, perhaps, because,
as nature would have it,
I am left to call you, Love.

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