after, when you are driving
75 miles one way just to get to her
and her wind-touched hair,
bleached white by the September
sun, the gray sky coughing up clouds,
that is when the doubts surface,
hard as stones.
it is late afternoon by the time you arrive,
the storm has already been through here.
you are not in your own element.
you are a runaway.
but, then she is there, standing right in front
of you, wet with rain, slender as a branch.
you watch as she makes her way over
and your heart gardens, rupturing red.
Originally Published in Lily, Volume 1, Issue 8, July 2004
Copyright © Lisa Zaran, 2004