Ganell's Poem

The sky is the color of our  gravestones.

We spoke of millions of billions of years 

we talked and hoped 

 then a drop of rain fell into the sound hole of our hearts  

another onto the unmade bed of our love. 

And after our love the rain will cease or it will go on falling even upon itself.

But in the winter when our love rains it turns to ice.

They say, "the ice will hold" so there I go forced to believe them 

by my act of trusting people stepping out on it and naturally it gapes open 

and I'm forced to carry on coolly by my act of being believing 

I  slide unknowingly  into the water 

waving to the shore with a sad smile 

goodbye dear one as the ice meets again over my head 

with a click never to be seen or remembered again...