by Taylor Roberts
Dare I miss the days without the fog
When all we sought was that purest note of wonder,
The jasmine gasp. Fallen Wasp,
I wandered where the groves once were.
I wandered, wanting nothing more.
In the Summer it was easier to miss you;
That bliss-filled silhouette of sunlit leaves,
The trees raising up their arms wanting to be noticed,
Indian Summer, before the autumn slaughter,
All the fallen leaves and daughters.
In Fall I stood among the ruins of a love
That had been Spring; a delicate, wounded
Blossom of a thing. When we were alive
And your arms were my arms, or at least too
Tangled to tell where you started and I fell.
Winter's child brought relief like a song.
A sharp knock--a broken clock, handsomest of any
Time to miss you. Days tumbled after the dark
Without quarrel, smashing the past like an easy
Punch line. The one about the fog, the bird’s nest and the dog...
As cruel as April is in all its verse, the Spring
After all its bloom and glory and curse--
I cannot for all the jasmine and the sea
Miss you in the sublime wonder of Spring.
Not the sugar quest, not the broken breast,
Not the days without fog when your arms were my arms,
or at least too tangled to tell where you started and I fell.
[copyright 2014 by Taylor Roberts, photo by allan grant]