tho our sparrows may whisper

where once
we’d walked
climbing over
our wooded-path stones
now, love, we live
walking these paths, alone
distant, our villages
finding ourselves
in different planes
of existence
tho neither of us
nor lower
than the other
aye, nor be we beside
our differing history
quite nearly belying
even those daring moments
neither, thrown–
by fate’s reckless whimsy
nor by the pious condemnation
of our disjointed destiny
but rather, simply
diverged, crookedly
upon twisting, tangled tangents
abstruse, non-linear
still, a harrowed voice
only travels
as does love’s arrow
and tho our sparrows
may whisper
their lonesome songs
and tho we may
on some misty morns
to once more–

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