For Orris, and some others


Half past four in November,

sun not yet sunk, but dropping fast;

the light weakens and a certain

sadness falls–not unkindly,

but with memories bittersweet

of love and loss and chances often

imagined but never really taken:

the ones you never dared to love,

the truths you were afraid to speak,

the journeys that you couldn’t take,

the touch withheld that, given, might

have sparked the flame that would have burned

through all that protective armor

that girds your heart and holds it captive,

the times that your no meant yes, but you waited

too long to clarify and missed your chance.

Well, anyway, the light–it turns

golden, dims, and slowly fades.


Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper


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