I wonder if you made it out of the fog.
I am still waiting for your words.
Keep running through Rhode Island.
Bring me the beauty of the world.

You are forever nostalgic
For your past future self.
This is not where you were going.
Never how you thought you'd end up.

Spring never sprung
And winter wouldn't come
Which just leaves
You
You
You
Here in the heat

Five hundred sixty seven point three
is the number of miles
between you and me.
(But our hearts have
never been closer.)

The constant relief I feel,
With each breath I inhale,
Is like the comfort I have
When I hear your voice.

Out you pour like sand
Going through the pinched glass
That narrows before the escape.
Woman that I loved
Who traced and marveled
At the many lines that divided the world.
Can you trace new lines
To where you are going?
Can you draw a border
Around your lovely soul?
Chef of scorched pancakes
(The only way I like them),
Christmas fudge,
And summer sandwiches,
You filled me with sweets
That reflected your sweet soul.
Drawer, painter, beauty maker,
Your hands crafted
Many wonderful things.
Your hands.
Your crooked hands.
Bent, pointed, strong.
Can those hands now
Grasp these last edges?
And can you remember
Me now?
Can those eyes trace the lines
Of my face and see me?
Can you know me
And recognize
How much I have loved you?

There seemed hardly enough wind.
But you made that tiny silver kite dance about our heads
So lively that I thought surely it wasn't a kite.
Surely it must be alive and only pretending.