"Wait."
Wait for...
"Me."
For how long shall I wait for thee?
"Five..."
Initial shock passes, year one began, emotions amplified.
These things aren't mine: those soup recipee, a corduroy
jacket... your dirtied blouse.
Year two berthed hobbies -- to keep the mind occupied,
to keep the mind from thoughts of an occupantless house.
The third year granted me reflection, and daydreamt
thoughts evolved into dispair.
Noises last longer, in a house with noone there.
Year four was known best as a compromise of ends.
"We don't know why you don't let go," they said
while meeting for dinner -- drinks -- with friends.
"Because from her words I have to hope been led."
The fifth year, now, is growing old.
I look to the west, as you had once to me foretold.
A cold wind stokes my faith's sudden slack;
the hollow breeze is chilling the stoop's welcome mat.
But I rock there: wishing, waiting. Wanting...
When, when will, will you come back?
Nantosuelta was a
Gaulish goddess of
fertility and
fire. She, along with
Sucellus, did with
life and death conspire.
This is for
her