What Became Of Us

All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware.
Martin Buber

I know the silence
Of the rain;

And sense your silence
In its pain.

The mist that lingers
Above the river

Is not more gentle
Than your whisper.

The wind that stirs
The nodding firs

Not softer
Than my tender words.

Everything soft
The fog wraps in gauze,

And gray distances
Surrender.

Even the graceful
Ballet of birches…

Even the lament
Of mourning doves,

Even lips of past loves,
Mute as ghosts,

Wondering
What became of us.

© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

Photo