Atmosphere
"That which one ceases to be no longer exists."
                                                                              —Montaigne

Rain pummels windows, words unshake trees. I have not looked outside all night.

As if distance were merely a loose wire. We are talking, nowhere but here
and here, my love.

I do not doubt your existence-any more than I can walk on the ocean
floor (nonchalantly as a ghost).

Shut in winter's house, not epic's dark gray, trees without corollary, a
small flame wavering as shadows burn and waver.

Something expert closes a gap in curtains. I'll repeat, then you: this
gaping vault we'll fill with clocks and days and numbers. There is only
time.

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Copyright © 2014 Maxine Chernoff All rights reserved
from Fourteen Hills
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission