shadows come into themselves, where at night
we’re the light gathering winter bodies
around a small wood table
we are everything nearby wanting to lean in close,
entirely giving our space to the distance
in comparison and land
the town closes in, collecting all that space
outside the white fields expand out
all snow and wind
eight years of distance
it’s impossible to see anything else as we draw into one another
Those summer evenings to live for
where fate made a point are gone
as the years
slip into another oncoming year.
All that time
spent together when we were young has passed too.
We are much older. Our once love
is replaced by others
who think they know what to do with it.
We are defined by nothing
but the ever faint memory
till someday it is never known by anyone left.
Running its course of time. Love was.
Where we were here before.
Jack C. Buck lives and teaches in Denver, Colorado. He thanks you for reading his work. You can contact him on Twitter @Jack_C_Buck