dearest, I have not forgotten
where I’ve left off
here, I’ve dog-eared the page
to mark it
and just in case
have laid that small red
feather of an unknown bird
found while reading
beneath our final morning
every now and then
I’ll place my fingertips
along the spine,
ruffle the pages,
glance at our names
scribed just inside,
the pages waiting
for you to catch us up
and find as I have
that between the lines
love does reside
with a grace like rain
and the peace of drowsy trees
whose branches lace
the winter moon

© Sarah Whiteley

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