photo: ralph murre
Old Love
by
Joan Wiese Johannes
In
lust, we called it love on summer nights
when
young, wild heartbeats mimicked feelings true.
We
lit like sparklers, danced like flecks of light,
then
flashed and burned as firecrackers do.
In
daylight we were blackened ash, cold wire,
and
paper bits like shreds of Valentine.
The
air was toxic, fueled by hot desire;
canaries
died when lowered in our mine.
But
now, beside the river under trees
just
saplings during that summer long ago,
we’re
sunset, crickets, loons, a gentle breeze;
and
over the smooth stones fresh water flows.
So,
come into the home of my wise heart
so
grateful for long decades spent apart.
~
first published in the Peninsula Pulse
