Our words go slowly out
and the sun burns
them before they
can speak. It is
as though the earth
were tired of our talk
and wanted peace, an end
to promises, perhaps
an end to us. And we
merely turn to a window
and gaze upon the farmer
and his horse slowly
plowing the field they
plowed the day before.
The sun has risen
and within an hour
it will begin to drop
and in the lengthening
shadows a known cold
will waken and step
towards us. You will
touch my shoulder
just once, and I will
close the window
and turn to see your
eyes, bright and alive,
your mouth holding
a smile as best
it can. There is still
light upon your broad
forehead I have seen
bathed in sweat, light
upon cheeks and chin,
and now that light is
going too. No one
said it would be easy.
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