How we made it through another winter’s
not the question. Nor is it an answer
since one of us was left behind in winter.
In Spring, in buoyancy, you asked a question.
Cups stood their ground between us, tea and coffee.
You wished to be the answer to your question.
Then winter comes again and yet another,
a darkling season full of melancholy. The yanking
of my soul back to the gutter, that other
place where questions have no answers,
and answers only placate. It takes rafters
of steadfast faith, or mettle, to seek answers.
Truth is brutal. So much we can’t recover,
years I’ve begged for you to wait for Spring to bloom
again, living in despair beside each other, and another
stormy season while we tussle for an answer
or a coda to the sum of all of life’s bother.
I’ve learned to hold my tongue, to question
nothing. Questions are another sort of winter.
Originally published at Autumn Sky Poetry Daily.