There was no keeping you out then
nor any desire to. . .
And everything changed.
Everything.
You box up your old life now
get your own phone number
and a new mail box.
While I wait for your calls--
to hear your voice--
But I don't need a receiver
to hear you speak to me.
Every day I write you letters
in my head
--in my sleep
and I write them on the wind
hoping it will carry them to you.
I sit on wet leaves looking
up through branches,
shuddering in the waning
October light, looking up
at the clouds beyond.
The sky quivers in rhythm with
the vibrating grasses
and trembling
rock beneath me.
My God! has the whole earth
taken to trembling
or is just my blood that rattles
with the rapture of you?
All poems copyrighted by the author, Tracey Besmark 1997©
