Mark J. Mitchell

She is running away.
Two rows of trees
converge like nuns
and she’s almost out of sight.
I want to call,
to say—Stop.
It’s not the time to run.

But I can’t—
though I know who she is—
she is my
fugitive soul, fleeing
between rows of trees
exactly like nuns
whose rosaries whip
her legs in the dark breeze.

My throat is closed
by dust like beads
and I can’t call
to tell her—It’s time
for us to sit
facing each other.
I’m silent as she
vanishes through
those severe trees
past the dark horizon.