HERE OR THERE LOVE SURVIVES

HERE OR THERE LOVE SURVIVES


A faint light from a full moon
hiding behind the oak tree near
the barn, lights your face – oh,
you are gone but some still say
you vanished in the storm…

Your eyes would stare into mine
and I would feel the passion, the
appetite to love you. It was here
and yes at times, on the sand near
the sea.

You see no one sees you either,
nor has anyone talked to you here,
near the barn where we first met,
oh, it seemed like yesterday when
you squeezed me so tightly I wanted
to tell you, but not then, not the
first squeeze.

Here or there, your face will never
leave – your face brings me back to
our last day – waves spilling over a
rocky shore – you and I holding
hands as if we were children…

You wanted to roll in the sand, so
I followed, and our bodies were
coated with fine grains of white
sand.

You see - I would not let you
go - I held you – whispered
in your ear, kissed your ear
lobe - but a force stronger
pulled you from me.

I recall our hands slipping
apart – our last touch as you
fell away from my being – so
I walked to the barn and you
were there, I knew you would
be, waiting to say good bye,
until my day arrived to live again.

This place where I stand -
I shall return no matter the
distance I must travel –
Your face will still be alive
in the moonlight – from land
to sea - an instrument of
life after death - keeping
me alive and breathing.

Now as moonlight fades –
sun slips into unfriendly water.
I say farewell – once more.


Nancy Duci Denofio
© 2011 all rights reserved

Her Open Window

Fresh steps in snow
reveal her footprints -
as evening paints her
garage a deeper shade
of yellow – as squirrels
leap over steep banks
of snow – a black crow
circles dried toast, she
tossed from the
second
floor
it was her window…

Small red beans attached
to thorns - her bushes
coated with ice -
crack – letting color peak
from winters coat – the
sun disappears behind the
garage - near tulips
fighting to be born
again - near pears resting
on the ground. . .

Her round pedestal table
is cold, naked without
her special table cloth -
hand sewn flowers at the
edge - dried flowers
on display from last
summer. . .

Her pedestal table near
a second floor window -
now cluttered with
sympathy
notes . . .
A wind enters - from
the second
floor
window –
notes tossed
I rush to gather paper -
another gust of wind
enters from her
window. . .


Nancy Duci Denofio
(c)all rights reserved