Love Still

I'm thinking of someone I loved--

Love still.

I'm looking at the vines that grow on the west side of the yard--

Why do they reach out to the second post, or the third?

Why does the simple painted wood invite the seeking curls?

Why are they there at all,

With their red stems,

And new green leaves?

Why am I,

With my old sweater and my melancholy?



I'm thinking of someone I loved--

Love still.

Shouldn't love be a thing in motion, like an arm reaching

With fingers open

Welcoming?

I am thinking of the places where the vines don't grow,

Because someone who doesn't care for vines has cut them,

Or because mulberries and wild strawberries were already there.



I am thinking of someone who loved me--

Loves me still.

I am thinking of her face, and her dark hair long that enchants me.

I am wondering how the vines know where is empty air and where is something solid?

I am thinking how the afternoon turns, becoming dusk.



I am thinking of the vines, and the bruisy evening sky.

I am thinking of someone I loved--

Love still.

________