Wait for...


For how long shall I wait for thee?


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