It is too early
to remember
and too late to forget
the small things
and the random words
that come between
finding you one day
and recalling your presence
the rest of the week.
I write my poems now
two at a time,
count my blessings all day,
nights included,
even as the forward movement
of my words
bridges the gap of sudden stops,
as you reach the aphelion
of your ritual orbit
around our most-shared songs
that, from day to day,
serve as a canopy
when not all evenings are daylight,
and not all the world
Is ours.
