For Memory

Sacred flames burn of late,
at last,
defiant in your autumn gale.

From this fantastic, novel vantage
it seems,
at last,
our rules have been amended.

Must we always be at odds?

Although the times may murmur
your coming wintertide,
this… no, my ineffable incandescence
at last,
lights a dewy dawn
melting goodbyes to
that
long
benumbing
season…

… and then, I remember.

I remember
laying bare
mollified in the susurrus of your gentle promises
as though our campfire high amongst your Andean tarns
would, at last, warm us both unceasingly.





http://tennysonpoetry.home.att.net/otm.htm