Turn a page. Take a
petal, from where it first
sprouted. A newborn
vessel, lost, in its undertow.
A river, to a departure
has set afar, our matrimony.
White moths gather,
turned to ashes.
A white altar brought forth
step after stumble. While we
held a fortune, in arms,
we wept, without waiting.
We turned pages
to see those stellar
outcomes, under rain.
Alone, to hear our tone,
to fold quilts, against shadows.
Summer has escaped
out a door we had opened,
choosing to turn pages.
Alone, to feel our bones
chiming from empty winds.
Candles highlight words,
written on our palms,
folded for answer.
Turn leaves over. Turn our
eyes, towards open doors.
To witness those ships
moving with birds,
motioning with waves,
that echo farewells.
Modern Romanticism 