Poet 11586

To Anna as a young girl

you wrote that when you
were yet a child
romantically alone,
infatuated easily,
before the crown dissolved,
the black garden spaded over.
cold words from frozen
lips, determined
the hurts of first loved would be
eternal. words for living boys
not soon to die, or long dead
the lord had taught you
about forgiveness
but not given you its practice,
you had yet to hear the mourning
of a questioning violin.
your beautiful clothes
would be torn in wave upon wave
staining the ground and
sky, horizon to horizon.
leaving you a refugee, not
a child seeing what you
might love under asian stars.
and i read of you
in my north american
night and realize that i have
loved you my whole life,
before i was i, and you
were an unpronounceable