After Hours

Not yet five, and the light

is going fast. Milky and veined

a thin frost covers the flooded 

ruts of the driveway, the grass

bends to the winter night. Her face

is before me now; I see it

in the misted glass, the same

impossible smile and I can feel

again on my bare shoulder

the dew of her breath. We made

a life in two years, a sky

and the very trees, lost in thought.

I know what it is, to be 

alone, to have asked for everything, 

and to do without, to search

the air for a face that slipped away,

to wait, and what it exacts.

I don’t fear it, I say,

but I do, and this night

the wind against the window

and the top branches thrashing about

enter my life and I see

the coming time loose and dark

above me, with new strength.