A poem via comments on a blog

If He Were to Ask What She is Thinking
by Kyran Pittman

I have been here before. At midwinter
weary of dimmed restaurants and shaded windows
we came along backroads to this very place. The trees
were bare then and it seemed my eye could cut
an infinite path between them, the forest floor
etched out in stark precision, veiled now
by the blind of green that shimmers diffuse
in the pollen drenched rays of this spring afternoon.
But that day the light was low and piercing
and I ached with the nakedness of it all
like ice caught in my throat and melting slowly.
And now that I think of it, that was the last good day
we had together. See how everything has grown in.