Carl Newlen

Wildflowers

- July 10, 2009, 3:20 pm | Poetry

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And so, in early May,
before the cornfields fill with summer,
we have grown to half strangers,
chipping away our friendship --
a tree too old for fruit or shade.

My friend, we are no longer young
as when we sat in those August sunsets,
safe before love failed, when time to us
meant darkness or light, and nobody
could find us if they tried.

I never picked you wildflowers.
Did you notice? Is it true
our drifting is as natural as the falling
of leaves, going on when love is gone,
this going on from love?

I`ll remember
your hair a mess from sleep,
your face the moon.
You were never good at good-byes.
I would change nothing.

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