Poetry Year October 9

The peel that rings, the peel that stings us,
the bells that call, in laden fall, the quadrangle as it must,
ages more gracefully than any hour of our lives.

It is like other epoch I think,
exchanging letters in dark of war,
missives that touch what was touched,
where all you have is all you have.

You are so far away, measured in miles and years,
hours and ages.
That we would match on this world at this time,
seems a mystery to me.
Let it pass let it pass,
this bright cold day,
Let me huddle, let me wait,
for your voice and our inner play,
measured in and out in units that no monarch can command.
We gift a ball that floats in that other space,
and bounces there, far out of sight unseen.

An instant in voice connection,
and the years they flutter forced
like leaves fallen on these, the trees that brush my window.
We are children again, laughing at nothing.

And these exchanges are a blow,
and, I think, bring you to think,
of actions incompatible with your present situation,
that would drift you from the the presence in your other room,
who is beyond the arc of our embrace,
but whose shadow lies over all we say and do.

And if, if, that is, ever if,
you find that once the bounce of whisper on your ear,
is to much for your to bear,
then know it was a time, and this our time is true,
even though I will, then, have to bid adieu.