My great reward, not always earned, is each
night to lie down beside you. It won’t, I know,
always be so. There are nights ahead will teach
one of us at the very least a thunderous no.
Unlike those loved and left in the past somewhere,
who never age or disappoint, for whom
we always feel the same despite the wear
of time and distance, regret’s frail bloom,
you and I risk yet another night, and then
another day that may change everything,
and seldom for the better. Say amen
to that, and let love again sing.
I’ll try to make it to morning admirably.
But because a story’s middle can become its end,
arriving like a dark whisper, suddenly,
I’ll say farewell for now, my truest friend.
At the risk of damping ardor, I will tell you how
I’ll see you then if there is time for a last
fond thought—you will be in the rocking bow
of a small boat on Lake Louise, eyes downcast,
and wanting to be nowhere else, with no one
else, the day breezy, far off the descant
of birds. I’ll drop the oars, finally done
with rowing, and hold your hand until I can’t.