Receding

It started with a sunset—

you thought that was the best place to ask

and a trip up into the mountains

canoeing over glass.

You receded just a little,

moving out of this world by degrees.

At first it was just the spring:

the blooming made you sneeze.

You and I wove wildflowers and stars and iloveyous:

the world was all around.

We had promised forever,

and the world still echoed our words.

There were summer barbecues

and walks upon the beach;

you receded somewhat more,

and we were cautious in our steps.

The world was still there in you,

glorious autumn pouring down,

photographs in rain,

but you were less in it.

I still felt no constraint,

because the receding happened bit by bit.

Only when the winter came ,

when all the days by artificial light were lit

when babies who’d tumbled in like heaven

had grown too big for bat and ball,

time somehow passed while you were sick—

only then did I recall

the last time we were in the world.

There’d been snow upon the mountains

and babies in our car.

There are no babies now,

no snow or mountains,

and quite a lot of time has passed

since we left the shadow of the peak.

When I go out, I go alone,

and even shelter fails to keep you warm.

Each day has become a waiting game

Of holding breath, but

when I recall the sunsets

and nights beneath the moon,

I realize with sudden clarity

that I am losing you.