Poetry by Bret
Addison • Photo by Sunny Williams
I wanted to write something so beautiful
you would just give yourself to me,
but my words fall off into a cistern
and flow no more.
I am struck dumb by your eyes
looking out at shrubs on hills
I have not seen. The river
you’ve crossed has left
me on the bank, kicking out
the fire, stuffing the backpack,
making ready for the long walk back.
It has come to this,
my feet nailed to my boots,
hand shielding my eyes
searching the horizon
where you’ve been,
then all those days just sitting
in a room, waiting for a call.