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So it has come down to this:
My last tear while
the mists of summer still
lather in Autumn's
stained-
glass air.

Love's shadow was
your leaving:
the dark that hollows out
the maiden portrait of
the moon;
a dark that cannot dream,
but cannot forget.

What was it I believed was
worth the price of everything?

It was the Universe with all
its frozen lace and knowledge:
centuries of joy
distilled to moments I
tried to frame with galaxies and
God's grace.

And it was nothing.

It was you transforming into a
stranger somewhere else . . .

a taste of light,
a cherub's rosy kiss,
one star-crazed glint of memory
upon the endless script
of night.

© Patricia Joan Jones