Maria Justa Polotan Poems

I burned them today, your letters to me,
I placed them in a pile in the garden
And set them a-flame - with one tiny match.
They burned quickly, paper white to cinder.
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'All things end, '
And I knew that from the start,
Now I need to say it
To a very stubborn heart.
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Of the many parts of you I love
What is it that I keep near?
Could it be your eyes that magnify
All that I hold dear?
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I offer you a tender gift each day:
Gentle thoughts wrapped in honeyed syllables,
Heated passion sheathed in crystal prisms;
All of these in small alabaster jars,
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No words are needed when the bright of night
Is lit not by stars nor promise of light,
I crave not the fire of a ‘burning gaze’
Nor the ardor of the moon – in full phase.
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No key, no meter,
A melody stripped bare,
Tonality missing,
A cadence to nowhere.
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Those who write put more than words on paper,
They create a new time with quill and pen,
They recall memories near forgotten,
Lost thoughts and ideals are captured again.
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