One summer season,
this, your gift of our love,
was like rubber,
expansive,
spreading as wide as a friendless city.
On one occasion
overflowing, it melted,
leaving in my long fingers
a sticky residue.
On another occasion
I seem to remember,
the letter you sent entreated me
for the chance
to fold itself away.
At times when we met
where the trees’ shade slept,
the wind wet its ankles
in the pale green river water
while the rain sowed a smile
on its thin and wrinkled face.
But then,
how did it happen,
the cruelty of the mid-day heat
and the inflexible tightness of ice?
Today,
the rain, like our love,
has ceased to fall
upon the hands of the wind
spread open, like your letter.