Raw Silk
You had the Frisbee, I carried the plastic bag the onions
came in.
From your pocket you drew a mustard sandwich,
We drank from the fountain built into a stele of stones.
In fall the trees wore crimson bonnets, yellow too, and
orange.
The terrier tormented leafy piles, the poodle gnawed on
sticks.
You caught your scarf around my neck, and pulled me close.
I searched the field for a private place because the shack
was locked.
Snow made the land a fleecy bed, quilted by the prints of
deer.
Dogs dashed from corner to corner, tearing through the sheet
of white.
Your letter crumpled in my ungloved hand, I wept,
The pond stiff with polished diamonds in the frozen sun.
Now, the swath of brown stretches out like silk, beauty in
monotony.
The poodle chases crows, trots back to me with soulful eyes.
Ducks seam the pond, shaking their wings, as if to wake the
spring.
Me, I scuff along beneath the pale of cloud. Your scarf is all that’s left.
Me, I scuff along beneath the pale of cloud. Your scarf is all that’s left.
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