The Charon Cycle:
thirteenth hour
and I am growing cold,
and older--your body
haunting me, the ghost
of your hand on mine--
the stars swinging past,
I soaking in sky until
drunk on light and water
I walk to the bridge,
stare solemly into the black
midnight of the Sound
and imagine a solitary
rowboat moored at a pier
among lilies. The place
where we'd come, our fortunes in hand
a prayer escapes; whispers
across the water, echoes
in the secret and fey places
along the leafy coast.
and in the water, a light;
the reflection of a promise,
a reply.