POETRY

26, 33

The seasons turn over

like leaves and bud again.

I was content to pass 

from the earth

and hear my steps echo 

against cobblestone streets

Or at the very least, 

I wanted to give up.

All the while,

the burning question remained,

I cried out in a loud voice:

“Do you care, 

do you love me still?”

Seven years pass -

gold leaves and green buds

just outside the cobblestone streets

I hear a gentle voice say back:

“Do you care, 

do you love me still?”