Sometimes she finds herself
standing in the porch
watching the lake below,
feeling free, until she realizes
she is mere substance.

Grief brings the memories back
hope always last to die.
A part of her longs for this isolation,
heart tranquil, memory stirring.
Remorse alters nothing.

Sometimes she sees his outline
moving by the bed.  He had taken
his time, knowing hands,
his touch strange and soft.

The past, false-hearted, moves
along slowly, catching up in its
own sweet time.  Dreaming lies
closest to living the passion.

So much of life has been about
what never happened.
Desire belongs to yesterday.

Published in the collection, Tuesday's Child: Poems from The Blue Heron
(Piquant Press, December 2011)
Copyright © 2011 Cheryl Andrews
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