It doesn’t matter what we should have argued about.
Talking was something we couldn’t or wouldn’t do.
We walked through a meadow instead, you slightly ahead
and I taking pictures of things I wanted to remember,
including that bloody sunset. The flowers parted
before you and so did the tall ferns and the trees
and after them the mountains, splitting cleanly in two
to let you pass, and as you did, closing behind you,
seamlessly, like an eyelid, a forest of eyelashes blinking out
any trace of your passage. I barely had time for one
last snapshot, an exercise in memory, the pale blot of a hand,
possibly yours, raised to stave off the click of the shutter.
Prompt courtesy of Imaginary Garden with Real Toads: “The object of this challenge is to write a poem of between one and twelve lines, in a form of your choice. Our point of departure is the line: ‘It doesn’t matter’ from Come, Come, Whoever You Are by Rumi.”
Also linked to Sunday’s Poetry Pantry on Poets United.