LOST IN THE WOODS
And so it’s gone forever? Just like that?
The slowest growing forest leveled, set?
I think not. Blue smoke rises; even so,
belief had better take a walk all night.
As spring itself is unpredictable,
so every kiss engendered in the chill
damp grass, backlit by technicolor eve
(lakeside behavior being what it is),
sets off a rampant ripple, inner spring
acutely coiled then evermore past tensed.
And afterwards? A storm strained through streetlamps,
conviction like an avalanche on lock,
now-knowing what you miss, knowing what gives.
For here’s the thing about true love: it lives.