a poor writer pens
heartfelt discourses on parchment
soon to be lost on the other side another
writes notes pinning them to refrigerator
walls that none would forget how
many years had passed
before they would
cross over
to

discover

the other again and it was ashamed
how time was lost and it was a crying pity
at the cost the world had put them through but
now it’s all here in black discovered & recovered
here in the quiet of bleu Bitterroot where there’s
enough to make any autumn fall with tears
yet pressing onward it was a joy
to read how their lives
had intertwined
back
in some
dingy library
away on shelves
and concealed times
where gardens of words
burst forth waiting for the
sunlight and minds to
recognize