And so what shall we say
here at the end of day,
Here at the cold of fiery dusk
Before extending our feet
and hands
toward the hearty
crackling hearth?
The fire that blazes there
used to be
between
us
but has cooled
like the surface of
the moon,
and seems to have
fallen
down a crater
of its own making.
And so what shall we say?
‘Goodbye’ seems too trite.
‘Farewell’ is too polite.
And ‘so long’ has become
‘too long.’
Perhaps we shouldn’t say
anything.
And kiss.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr. 2015