So much is lost in the shadows
that crop the view of the forest floor
where the wild ferns sway
just as lovers tangle with desire –
the longing for lush tones,
now dancing in the wind,
the promises kept and broken,
dreams that once were so vibrant
reality’s edge would fade,
and the expectation of your return.
The portrait, like a bottle of wine,
is nothing but an empty vessel
when the last drop is gone –
dimensions too are lost.

– previously published 2004