in the morning I will be gone

in the morning I will be gone.
but who says a night can be measured in hours
the tender splendour of light at rest
when the zest and the best of the world
falls into small corners to be pressed together
like pages in a journal full of wildflowers.

in the morning I will be gone.
because that was the deal we sealed in wordless words
heard only by us in purely furtive looks,
nooks and crannies of our revelations filled
with all sorts of lies we tell ourselves
because the truth hurts too much, too much.

in the morning I will be gone.
and you will launder and press and fold
and put away the memories that seemed so important
when they were being made, fading to jade,
pages that never yellow as we never look at them
except in the darkest of nights.

in the morning I will be gone.
but who says a night can be measured in hours
the tender splendour of light at rest
when the zest and the best of the world
falls into small corners to be pressed together
like pages in a journal full of wildflowers.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
I return to the Fields of Arbol. This is inspired not just by a lovely photo of my friend "blackfantastix" but also by the title she gave the photo, which I appropriated for the theme of the poem.