Seven years.

Writers cramp entry.

Seven times this day has been.
And days stretch on in the distance.
Stretch behind me, warped doors
Not quite there, not quite not.

Seven years this life has gone.
I can’t remember the progression
The first, too fast into the next
Not remembered, not forgot.

Seven days in every week.
Is spent with you, again.
The weeks bleed into months - make years
not unhappy with our lot

Seven stones on our garden path.
that garden bench where summers past
We spent, our almost memories
For seven days, seven summers, seven years of life

Seven years may not be long.
But I don’t know how, if you were gone
They would pass in such a way
That I remember one long day
And one long night.



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