Photo by Cathaleen Curtiss

Spring

:

The water ran black in the mornings.
. The soil had plenty to say
. after being
silent for so long.
. It wasn’t even the color
. of water
that propelled her
. into a downward
. spiral, but its
fleeting action,
. its constant
. rushing away,
as if leaving
. was all it knew
. how to do.
Black wasn’t worse
. than the gaudy tints
. of that half-
forgotten fall, when a careless
. wind
. licked her skin
as she sat on the porch,
. watching him walk
. back toward his life.
All those days spent
. in silent admiration
. of his voice
were water
. under the bridge.
. Never again
would she wait
. for the sound of his
. key in the lock,
would she bother
. to look in the mirror
. at odd
hours of the night.
. Never again
. would she take
his scolding for a sign
. he cared.
. The squeal
of his brakes as he peeled
. out from her driveway
. was now, at best,
a memory of something
. she had lost,
. at worst, a regret
for having had
. that something
. in the first place.