Looking into the lens of his eyes
“Where did my poet go?
When did our paths part?”
Her questions echo in emptiness, for
the poems had drained from her spacious heart.
He left her in the storm of his silence,
unspoken words stirring the sprigs.
Bending boughs in the rising breeze,
one-by-one the needles loosed
from the branches of brittle memories.
The last she truly saw him,
her eyes were closed
and their lips kissed the other’s last breath.
“I’ve been carried away from you,” he’d said,
“in the smoke of my fire’s death.”
The earth they left is scorched and gray,
scarred by fallen trees and ashen drifts,
but for a green blade of the first pine sapling
pushing up, sipping daylight
through a shadowed narrow rift.
Whenever a raincloud passes by
she’s reminded of her poet’s pyre.
She gathers love from drops of words,
pouring them onto her poems, she cries,
“Oh, if only one tear could put out this eternal fire.”