On Enduring Love

A poem I wrote three years ago came to mind while reading Nothing But You. The title is borrowed from the Ian McEwan novel, but the poem is not inspired by the story.

Enduring Love

Things everywhere

not anymore remarkable

but for being

there—

simply,

not still. They meant

splendor,

once—

good but finally

only human

hearts, the intentions

they can have, then

not keep—

was it failure,

after? Mistake?

No.

It was, as when hold’s

no longer mistaken for

keep, less giving up

than in:

Let pass what must.

Or

Let us note this landscape and still love each other.

Not winter, not come.

Fall.

Go.

You, me,

we both.

We do not lose what we can not lose

and lose again.