Green Linden Press

Years Later

Years later, the words were faded. The ink, once purple-black, was the ghost of brown. It was like the beech leaves scattered over the myrtle. The paper, once the white of cream, was the yellow-white of weathered paint, an old sailboat’s hull. But beneath it, the photograph of the three of us was unchanged. It was still black and white. I was still stupidly self-conscious. You were still beautiful. He was still in front and between us, still slightly leaning into you. His face was still that haiku of eyes and mouth. Months later, spring came. Beneath the forsythia, the crocus appeared, head first. Some were purple. Some were yellow. Some were white. The rain was not icy anymore. The nebulous desires came into focus. The heart opened. It put forth its spike of fire. It burned purple. It burned yellow. It burned white. Weeks later, I remembered it. There was nothing more to learn by heart. There was nothing more to discover there. Two pleasures had to be enough, and they were enough. One pleasure had to be enough, and it was enough. Days later, the cloud shaped like a man in recline who has dreamed he has dreamed the three perfect dreams of the world, moved off on the wind. It revealed the moon. The moon was silent. The moon was silver. The moon was cold. The moon was the three perfect dreams of the world. Moments later, all was gone. The golden-yellow of the sun, the white of the clouds, the clear and endless blue of the sky were gone. All that was reflected in the window of the train was in the eyes and the mouth. The eyes blinked. The mouth opened. It was years later.