If all time or memory of it were one hour and if it began the hour when I first met you over coffee and eggs and ended at the moment you had your arms around me and spoke into my hair "We'll do this again maybe" and it was a question a question the rain might ask or the sun before it tucks the day away a question with an answer so inevitable you didn't need to lift your voice and there I'm meeting you again at the curry place, or on the lake trails and each time you take my hand it is the first time and maybe if all time were like that there'd be no time for goodbye.
I wrote this poem in 2013 when I met the woman who was to become my wife and then my ex-wife over the next 10 years. Reading it now is bittersweet of course. Self-fulfilling? Perhaps. Entropic? for sure. Glorious? Yes. That one hour was glorious.