Shadowland

Mist forms in the morning
making the land feel estranged from itself.
Leaves dimmed. Fallen chestnuts
lacking polish. A sparrow hawk
who's perched on his bough
stays voiceless, veiled in gray .

And beyond mist, it's my breath
lost while running to latch
your glance to mine. Last night
with the train about to leave,
I kissed your hand --
my face floating in the silver swirl
of your cufflink. Its image shed
like a white petal from the tree
where we sipped vodka
and read Akhmatova

Wheels turned. You were towed away
by a journey surpassing the map.
The need, the rush to confirm love (not farewell)
dissolved in steam and light.
I closed my eyes wondering
how such desperation
might digress --- a slow dampness
seeping into bone and branch, a loneliness
becoming rain scent, an anointed ghost
we receive but fear to know.  ______________________________________________

The painting is called, “Willows”, by Russian artist Lyudmila Blok