Like this mid-February snow
on the bristled fields,
I’ve been scoured
by winter winds from the peaks
of their memories’ topographies.
I am the enigma, the shadow
from the periphery of potential
Once-was, destined to become
the ultimate question of Who-was.
To all the ones I thought I loved,
and no doubt to the few who
could love me, I am the paradox,
the deep wellspring who could never
spill the feelings they sought
in comprehensible thoughts
or deeds, let alone
But the singing winds will blow,
and the springing hope always
returns, until, for me,
one day it won’t.
Maybe that will be my time
to step from these shadowy places
to dawn as a memory that will bring
you smiles, the answer
to that final question.