Spring

April 02, 1993|By Barbara M. Simon

Unsure of itself, the day broke

through thin clouds into

eggshell light. Shadows

faltered in early spring breezes.

We were tender then,

new in love, so uncertain

of language, we could speak

only in the specifics of touch.

Long past that season,

we have lingered, drifted

through a profusion of light,

learned to talk, forgotten touch.

This spring we are casual, distant

and empty as the deepening

shadows.

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