Passage

The drifts
exist
in exile.

Stocked in shady niches,
clinging to a fleeting existence.
Drifts of a season
drifts of a reason
the purging white winter of our love
replaced by the thatch
of the prison of the past
woven in
to birth and new life
thereof.

Here we do wait.
Here it is over.
Here it begins
and ends
and begins.

Straddling the razor
pierced by the zenith
holding what it was
what it is
and what it always will be.
What is promised.
What is born
what is lived
and is dead.

Yesterday’s drifts,
today’s trout lilies,
and soon
soon
soon
the stinging nettles
of regrets.