Ben McKeown

You must be special -
more than I acknowledged -
because I look away for three long months
and all of a sudden
I turn
and I’m in love with you again.

I let it sit,
forgot it entirely,
moved on in full form
and somehow,
somewhere in the immateriality of
a season’s changing,
you stayed you
and I fell for you again.

I may find futility
sitting conspicuously at the end of this path
and for that I wonder
should I stay?
should I retire?

Or should I march swiftly
and resiliently
forward,
accompanied by a trumpeter’s love tune,
brushes on a steady snare,
footsteps in a quiet garden.

I am one small seed.
You are all the seasons.