By late September, I will be gone, and that
love that wraps us now in warm arms may wither
under the weight of time. I know that as well as you,
even though I hide behind closed eyes.
Gather me close, my dear. For a little while
let me pretend belief in forever, in happily ever
after. After all, such are the fairy tales of love’s
sweet sorcery on which we are raised. That hearts can
stop time together, that distance is powerless.
Green grass and summer sun lie still before us.
One still November night we met, and though I admit it
bitter that less than a single year is to be ours,
let us not waste the seasons we have in
early sorrow. If my next November is to be as blue as
the glasses you once gave me, the memory of
summer will light my rooms, and I will raise a glass to you.
April 7, 1996