The Coin

Once more the dark figure
comes out of the evening shadows
at the edge of the woods
tossing his coin up,
letting it land in his palm,
and someone is gone.

The river flows,
bright in sun
dark in shadow.

He looks at the coin
and tosses it again.

The river flows
bright in sun
dark in shadow.

Did you see him,
the day you fell?
Did he fall beside you?

Or did he come before,
one of those winter nights
that I would awake
and see you at the window?
Was he there,
standing under the burgundy leaves of the maple
out of the streetlight’s circle
tossing his coin?

The river flows
bright in sun
dark in shadow.

I thought I saw you today
bending over the wild asters
but it was just a small movement of the willow branch
and a fluttter of startled sparrows.

The river flows
bright in sun
dark in shadow.

Copyright Kay Winter

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Letters

Tonight I will dream
that all the letters
you’ll send me
will arrive as white birds
flying from where you are
and landing in my hands,
paper again.

A thousand letters.

A thousand birds.

In my dream
I’ll open each one
and find it blank.
And I will imagine your words,
and write them on the pages.

And the heavens will
answer back for you:
“Yes, yes, that is exactly
what I wanted to say.”