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by Eliot
Rated: E · Poetry · Experience · #461019
Nature remembers the disorientation of love lost

Calling at will your wild name,
My voice drops cold like fallen mist
On boughs of solemn pine,
Mute regents of that rural road,
And turning once beside the stream,
I follow your loss through verdant grass
One spring-torn afternoon.

Others go another way, quickened silhouettes;
Their footsteps grate the stony walk.
I see them from the river path
Between the strands of willow.
My brooding pulse beneath the bridge
Will keep no vernal rhythm.
Current trembles over rock.

How you found your way or when
I did not know and still do not:
We did not speak, and daylight ended.
How many hundred days since then
I have searched the ways you do not run,
Dusk-stricken at the water’s edge.
River and rock, tree and grass remember.
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