In spring you touched me
like a newfound flower,
kissed me with your rose-red mouth,
caressed me with your hands;
you said wait till summer,
write it down, write it down.

Now the river grows hot
and slows under the sun,
the path
along its bank clear and bare
as a swept palace corridor;
the sky above
immense blue dome
ominous, empty of life.

The grey mallard floats alone
under the wooden bridge,
forever fixed in place,
a Chinese painting;
nature rises in disgust against it,
its stillness, its careful art;
do we care that captured
now is really now?

When the time is right,
cut the two of us open,
see our hearts,
supposed lovers,
surprise the living flowing world
that so long we waited
in the same place,
withdrawn and empty,
still as the willows along the path,
still as the stones.

Our fire has gone out,
the days long past,
but this time together
will never end;
lost in our own bower
we need no faith in the morrow,
no newfound continents looming;
just the two of us
in one embrace,
static, eternal,
like an unbroken ring,
like a distant star’s
unperceived swing
around the heavens;
only here, only now,
in one moment abiding,
under the light of our own sun
love’s fulfillment is complete.

Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in Scrivener, The RavensPerch (often), The Comstock Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Typishly Literary Magazine, The Antioch Review, The Piedmont Poetry Journal and elsewhere. Harvey is a Pushcart nominee and is published in several anthologies. His book, Mark the Dwarf is available on Kindle.