That secret silent wasting away of hearts breaking,
glass shards piling to the floor, soundless winter fall around,
a blizzard of loves, blinded by this white walled storm.
That is what the author tried to tell me, I know now,
how it would be after all these years,
times of together, behind times of apart,
would all build a solitary world of ice.
But I never listened, not to any of the tale tellers,
because time and history and good fortune were on my side.
I’m closing the book now, the long story having taken hard turns as foretold,
and now the clock needs winding, now, of course, that I’ve lost the key.