Tag Archives: relationships


Touch some part of me
while we wait for my soul
to be taken and crushed
like petals for scent.

I will neither enter
nor leave the room again.

Each moment
is a snowflake transforming
into a waterdrop
on a green leaf.

The border to the next land
is invisible to the naked eye
music is the only map.

I have walked away
without a word of goodbye.

You must stay on
counting the barks of distant dogs
and the songs of the souls
needing bodies.

Copyright Kay Winter

Tagged , , , , , , , , ,

It Was Coming

Thank God I didn’t see it was coming
or I would have changed direction
and I shouldn’t have
and I am glad I didn’t.
Thank God I didn’t see.

It was coming
down the long road
of November
Your theft of me.
Your leaving of me.
Your stunning of me.
On a winter street
on an empty Sunday
it was coming.

Down the long road
of empty Sundays
went I playing.
Sweet as my own soft voice.
Sweet as a single violin.
Sweet as a single horn.
Playing in an empty room.

Went I playing
raining and laughing years later.
I didn’t see it was coming.
You in the open doorway.
You shaking the water off.
You in front of me
With the mean asking.
And went I on playing
into the fierce night
out the open door
to the long road
to my own home
over the bridge
over the thawing bog
to the coming of the Spring.

Copyright Kay Winter

Tagged , , , , ,

Steal Something Small

Steal something small.
Take it.
Disregard the value.

A silver knife, a button,
a shy smile,
a bookmark, a rose petal,
a plastic spoon,
a diamond,
the touch of a hand
in greeting.

Steal something small.
Hide it.
Tell no one.
Disregard the value.

– Copyright Kay Winter

Tagged , , , , , ,

The Last Day

It is the last hot day
of a long, borrowed summer
and we are waiting for the storm
we see coming.

This is the last day
before we go.

We are sitting on the dock
and the water has
the low, seaweed smell
of a dry August.

I have let my wine grow warm
and I cannot look at the truth in you.

You watch through your sunglasses
as the line of dark clouds
gathers over the treeline
on the far side of the lake.

I think that there should be
something I can say,
but the words are dry in my mouth.

You check your watch.

This is the last hour
before the storm.

The last day
before we leave.

-Copyright Kay Winter

Tagged , , , , , ,

Plant Life

She is not just
a woman moving through days
like train cars
but a secret sapling
growing through days
like inhalations
and nights
like exhalations.

She began to grow
the day she sat
on the back steps
crying, spilling tea,
trying to forget
the way his eyes
were the same,
but the world
around him
had suddenly changed
and the night had fallen in.

– Copyright Kay Winter

Tagged , , , , , ,

Looking Back

We looked back to the shore
just once,
to the last portage
of the journey:
a small bare beach
against the dark pines.

We paddled on
around the point
toward the furthest shore
and the slow falling of the sun
marked our course.

Homeward across the lake,
until we disappeared into
evening light and quiet water.

Copyright Kay Winter

Tagged , , , , , ,

My Diary, My List

My diary, my list
of what I never knew.

Of what plucked lyre
called you.

Of what fluttering image
beckoned from
the looking glass.

Of why the pockets
of your mornings
were never full enough
to keep you.

Of where you might be
(not being here).

I wandered
without you
below canopies of gray and pearl
scudding skies,
lark-sung grasslands,
as flat as the old
imagined earth,
looking for the edge
you had fallen off of.

Returning always alone,
to the house we had shared,
standing at the back window,
waiting for the lilac to bloom
against the weathered fence,
feeling the empty space
that was the hollow of my palm.

Each morning,
I’d wander from the wisp of dream,
tuck my heart back under the pillow,
and cross the bridge of the day.

I’d spend the twilight
writing the words down,
of how I was
looking for you
in rooms that were
the shape of your absence.

Copyright Kay Winter

Tagged , , , , , , ,


You saw the road
in your careful consideration.

But where you are
doesn’t look like that.

You expected several endings.

The tattered would simply
tear away
with you.

But the frayed ends
of the hot day
have burrs
of memory.

Copyright Kay Winter

Tagged , , , , ,


This is where he sees her
for the first time,
in the front hall of his fraternity house
as she adjusts her corsage
in the large mirror by the map of Spain.

He doesn’t dare speak to her.
She doesn’t dare let on
that she saw him spellbound in the mirror.

This where she sees him again,
years later,
on the sidewalk
outside a theater,
hailing a cab.
Through the late November snow
she sees the recognition in his face
though his hand remains in the air,
as she walks toward him,
in her black raincoat,
and practical shoes.

He looks past her,
down Broadway,
as she passes him,
and turns her head away.

Copyright Kay Winter

Tagged , , , , , , , ,

Love Poem

He wants me to write a love poem,
and, being old,
I think back to how it used to be
when we were young
and loved each other
without knowing it
over cans of tomato soup
and takeout eggrolls.

How our wool coats smelled
like mothballs and garlic
the winter we lived
in the damp apartment
above Pizza King.

And how the back
of his neck smelled
in the newlywed mornings
when we didn’t,
oh, we didn’t want to wake up.

Copyright Kay Winter

Tagged , , , , , , , ,