Doubts of black and white

                                                   
                                                      Big Room, 1948, by Andrew Wyeth

i remembered how you were last summer,

green skirt hued with red plump strawberries,

your brown eyes like wine, full of promise   

in this big room, the clock had ticked slowly

like waltz on fire-wood, slow burning, clinging,

rattling the stoic windows into river storm  

we thought we are special breed, 

black and white pods against the world, 

above the bust and din of prying eyes,

prickling our skin with doubts, until our candles waned

dying slowly in this airless room,   

sepia-washed, strained of seeds and flesh 

i burn your words in the urn, black as

dry leaves gather, waiting for the winter wind

  

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