Under the Influence

The length
of this road,
your girlish face,
time we’ve spent apart

drew me back
to draw you close, but
I’ve drawn the wrong conclusion.

It’s the time of year
for heavy frost.
I’d scraped away enough
to find the yellowed leaves
of our past
yet knowing how way
leads on to way
I doubted if I
should ever come back.

It’s the time of year
for killing things,
a duck, a deer,
a bottle of merlot.
So pull the cork;
let’s make a toast
to a past that lies here ashen.

Here’s to the cold embers
of a fire burned long ago.

(published by Artistry of Life)