Has the end begun,
or is it finished, done?
The last goodbys already said.
a whisper drifting
over emerald hills of clover,
the treasured minutes sprinkled
somewhere in between
the wildflowers and the green.
Was the mettlel merely won,
or crisply burnt and wrinkled?
A wanting wish that twinkled
on the shimmer of an evening star
because of who I am,
not who or where you are.
Together we were prickly nettles
pickled in an antique mason jar,
no consolation,
we remain the same
as always, far away,
traveling constellations
for still another day.