At the Bloom

I thought the fall would never go away.

That we could remain trapped

behind a progression of color changes

in imitation of the signals for stop and slow.

Those are warm colors and we raked them

into big piles to leap from the highest branch.

In my mind I can still see you

sitting on couch beside me

listening to the neighbor’s argue

with the recalcitrant television 

through the crumbling wall,

laughter, impervious

to the constitutive imperfections.

Sometimes this memory keeps me warm.

Then the winter where I couldn’t

quit looking through books

to find us. One piece of paper

and two pens so we could go until

definition was achieved, obscurity

obscured and life decanted into pages.

Into a beautiful prosaic addiction.

Your devotion was wrecked and in

hand two weeks later,

so we opened the windows

and cast the blame on cultural construction.

We grew roots as deep as the days, lengthening.

At the bloom, drunk and

looking for something was

your defense for hands and knees.

I think we amended our seeming.

New things were found and

found wanting but like pack rats

we kept everything, believing

anything might come in handy.

The final summer,

I remember how one night

lying in bed I realized

that the pieces rent from myself

formed no trail back to the start so

I kissed your hands, promised

not to leave and opened the door

to find some unfamiliar seasons.

Maybe there was a time when we had it

cornered. It must have been too small to see.