I see in her eyes
windows to the distant past,
cast in softer light.

what is it in you,
like a magnet, reaching out,
drawing me closer?

though I pine for her,
I know she’s an evergreen,
a cold weather tree.

photo: jordan meeter

the keeping of faith
sometimes requires a belief
in realism.

on the verge of it,
is the urge for it only
muscle memory?