"Poety is something more philosophic and of graver import than history, since its statements are of the nature of universals, whereas those of history are singulars."
-Aristotle

by Daniel Morgan

So I saw you a river in white,
Our holding hands a threshold.
The beauty of your presence banished
And outshone the thoughts of home,
And sound and touch were faded too
As I stepped into you
Like the moon in the night.
Each breath we braved a sigh,
As every star was showered in gold
Til snowflake hands implied
In a spread of prodigal bliss
Our girls now had their grown-up trysts.
That was when we talked aside.
Clutching the door that stood like a dare,
She said, "I do not love you.
Nor care for you as you have cared."

Looking outside, I awoke to relief.
The snow was still there
And she had long left me.

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