by Bruce Meyer

Knowing it is as impossible
as finding love in an airport
after your flight is called,

the moment is over as it begins,
and life wants to take you
somewhere you must be.

How do you describe it all?
Was it a dinner, the gingham
table cloth, the accordion player

who enchanted the moon?
Was it the child in you
out-grown like a favorite coat?

You once caught dust motes
and tasted them on your tongue,
wondering if sunlight was lemon.

It can’t be seen walking with you
on an empty beach in morning fog
as tide on sand hushes your heart;

you want to reply but have no words,
yet know each wave was singular,
and each was perfect had it lasted.

— from Juniper Volume 1, Issue 2