Modern Romanticism

Look at the whole
to behold
what continues its bold,
closest approach
to what’s grasped,
before it turns
into the dust
that gets raked
up to her.

She’s the tree
that loses leaves,
that alleviates
her arms,
from the weight
of clean debris,
of snow.

An ocean of white
stays still,
before her eyes,
catches her
feeble attention,
before she moves
onto the next.

The one undone
is her.
It is not a world
where pain
is its recreation.

She’s a newborn
first learning
to walk
without falling,
without crawling.

Drag her in,
wish her goodnight,
while she surrenders
to the slightest
of warm touches,
of caring kisses.

Let her down
just as she hoped,
as you walk backwards
far from the shadow
you didn’t mean
to have cast.