For This Is Not the End

Traveling on Pennsylvania’ s mountain highway alone,

without your gazing from my eyes this time,

I see black horses still chewing on the grass.

If this is the end of us, l start wondering,

then why some parts of you start to germinate as a whole.

l wonder if l must rewrite our love

like birches suspending in the midair 

of this cloudy late summer valley,

luxuriant, but doomed to pause growing soon.

I wonder if our love an horrible one, grand,

threatening to fall at any time.

Should we just wait?

Until ordinary days drop slowly,

for love dropping inevitably as fallen leaves,

yet leaving something climbing days and nights;

as prayers bending over tamely

in the hands of Jesus, sweetly and quietly,

pressing on to take hold of the whole,

without sweeping or mourning.

Until then, I will climb along the backside 

of the mountain between us,

like your kisses climbing on the back 

of my hands last summer.

And I will hand over my cool dry rein to you, my dear.

We shall ride again then,

in the destined upcoming fall, 

and spur together.