photo: ralph murre
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