When the polestar equals the jasmine’s scent,
a caress of planets sheds meteors.
Where stars thread the constellations’ alleys
sheer ice braids auroras in their descent.
We would work all day without knowing what
night would clutch between its pitch-dark talons.
Restless bodies stirred as our sad minds slept.
Morning, noon, quitting time, you were my wine.
I was a poor boy and you a poor girl.
Our bodies warmed our bed when night turned cold.
Our love was our only wealth in this world.
Callused fingers with dirt under our nails.
Nothing lasts that is not wrecked, then repaired.
Stories I know begin but never end.
(22 October 2012)
copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander